


Ill-fated

by Darling_Pandora



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, M/M, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Pandora/pseuds/Darling_Pandora
Summary: Perhaps he had deserved death, he had accepted his fate the moment he stood to face the Trinity guard, the odds were against him and death seemed inevitable, but to have died protecting another- and a small child of that, yes, he would have accepted death in that moment. Yet here he was, riding with a child of the enemy, riding toward the last strong hold of the Fey- toward those who he has wronged most,- perhaps death would greet him soon after all.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & Squirrel | Percival (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 107
Kudos: 342





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I'm super in love with this show right now and couldn't resist the Weeping Monk and Gawain pairing :D let me know what you think of this- but please have mercy on me as this is only the second thing I've ever written, if anyone's enjoying it I'll start writing the next chapter in double time :')

The rhythmic thudding of Goliath's hooves against the dry ground, along with the gentle swaying of his stride was almost enough to send the young monk hurtling into the darkness that was relentlessly clawing its way into the corners of his vision. They’d rode through the night without pause- too concerned with the very real possibility of being pursued by the Paladins. Suffering from the many injuries he had received, along with the lack of rest, the monk found himself too often listing to one side, coming close to falling off his mount all together. His grip around the boy in front of him may very well be the only thing keeping him grounded, both in the saddle and in consciousnesses. 

The boy stirred softly against him, he’d drifted off into a shallow sleep after they’d been riding a number of hours. Their progress had been slow and very unnerving, neither spoke a word in a bid to remain as undetectable and hidden as possible in their escape. But the stress of whole ordeal had taken its toll on the lad and he’d eventually fallen asleep. The monk kept his arms wrapped tight around the boy holding him balanced in place. 

The dawning sun bled through the trees of the forest behind them, gently bathing them in it’s rays and highlighting the path ahead. The boy shifted to wakefulness and seemed to assess his surroundings swiftly and with great detail. The monk felt an unusual pang of emotion at the sight, for seeing one so young having to act with such caution and with a level of awareness far beyond his years certainly hit a little too close to home for him. 

“What was you name, boy?” he asked, confident enough that there was no around to hear them speak.

“Squirrel,” came his all too quick reply.

“A squirrel is an animal, what name were you given?” he asks, slightly amused at the boys nickname. 

“I don’t like that name.”

“It’s still your name,” he quietly protested, quite aware of how breathless he was becoming from just speaking alone. 

“Fine, it’s Percival.” 

“Percival,” he repeated the name, feeling that it actually suited the boy quite well.

“Do you have a real name?” Percival asked.

“Lancelot. A long time ago, my name was Lancelot,” he replied. Hearing his name spoken aloud for the first time in as long as he can remember felt very strange, almost as if it was not really his own anymore.

“I heard what he said you know, that ugly Paladin monk, he said your species can smell out your own kind, you’re not human really are you? Does that make you one of us? Are you really a fey?” Percival questioned as he tried his best to twist in the saddle to look up at Lancelot with a ghost of hopefulness etched clearly on his face. 

Such a seemingly simple question asked so innocently shouldn’t have felt so painful to answer. All his life Lancelot had struggled with and against his true fey identity, at first he’d resisted against the will of the Paladins, fought against father Carden, however, his methods were relentless and unforgiving, his father was ruthless in his discipline and harsh punishment became his new norm. Bing taken from his family at such a young age left him completely at the mercy of his captors, and there is only so much pain and suffering one so small can endure before they begin to break. _“I spared you from the fire,”_ he can hear his father’s words in his mind, _“I gave you scripture, I gave you discipline, I laid the first brick on your road to salvation,”_ and he had come to be grateful for this, for his chance of redemption for being the monster, the abomination they said he was. So he obeyed, he followed without question and he punished his own treacherous skin for the hope of being worthy of forgiveness and acceptance from God. Suffering cleansed the soul, and pain became a constant companion. 

Looking down at Percival and seeing that he was still awaiting a reply, he decided that the boy deserved nothing less than the truth. “Yes, I am Fey, I am of the Ash Folk.”

Percival hummed in response, “Then why did you side with the Paladins, why have you hunted your own kind?” 

Guilt rose up in Lancelot’s stomach at the undertone of pure sadness seeping through the questions aimed at him. “I believed I was saving souls, I thought I was doing god’s work.” 

“So why did you help me?” Percival asked after a short pause.

“It was something your Green knight said, that I no longer know the difference between kindness and hate, but as he said it, there was only pity in his eyes, and that’s something I have never been on the receiving end of. When I saw that the Paladins had you, I knew what they would do, and I couldn’t let that happen.” 

Percival seemed to accept what he heard and returned to facing the path ahead of them. Lancelot nudged Goliath to maintain his steady pace, however, the uneven ground made for a less than smooth ride and each jolt from the motion caused a hefty amount of pain on his body. He sucked in a sharp breath as Goliath ungracefully descended a steep path causing Lancelot to shift his weight, he would definitely conclude that a good number of his ribs must be at least severely bruised if not totally cracked to bits.

“We should stop for water,” Percival said, “I know you’re hurt, you need to rest- I can help with your injuries, my mother taught me how to do it, I’m pretty skilled at it you know,” he boasted to himself, “and your horse might be thirsty too,” he added. And in truth, Lancelot really could do with a rest, the gash on his head had bled for a long time into their journey and he was starting to feel even more unsteady than in previous hours. But his only purpose now was in returning Percival to his people, and the risk of stopping only for his benefit did not sit well with him. He knew that the fey camp couldn’t be more than another days ride, could sense the direction he needed to head, and the quicker they got there, the quicker he would be delivering the boy to safety. 

“We do not stop, Goliath is a strong beast, he will make it through the day without a problem, we should make it to the fey camp by nightfall,” he said as he gently turned Goliath in order to follow the correct path, ignoring his injuries as he strained and held a little tighter to Percival to keep him from slipping. 

A gradual science fell between the pair as they both seemed to digest all the new information that had passed between them. But in his wondering thoughts, Lancelot had one burning question that he couldn’t hold back. “Why did you not run when you had the chance, you stood and faced the Trinity guard- and brave as that may be, you could have been long gone and heading toward safety, yet you remained...why?” 

Percival turned once again as best he could to look the monk straight in the eyes, “because you didn’t deserve to die,” he said, as if it was simply a fact, “you were lucky I was there, I could have taken them, bloody bunch of cowards wouldn’t have stood a chance,” he stated in confidence. And to his surprise, Lancelot found himself genuinely smiling at Percival’s statement, “I’m sure they would have been no match for you,” he said with a grin, choosing to focus on that instead of the way Percival had said that he hadn’t deserved to die. Perhaps he had deserved death, he had accepted his fate the moment he stood to face the trinity guard, the odds were against him and death seemed inevitable, but to have died protecting another- and a small child of that, yes, he would have accepted death in that moment. Yet here he was, riding with a child of the enemy, riding toward the last strong hold of the fey- toward those who he has wronged most,- perhaps death would greet him soon after all. 

................................................

The first thing Gawain had noticed as he came around was the caressing and near overwhelming scent of fresh grass, he shifted slightly and assessed his ability to move any of his limbs, realising wish mild shock that he was unrestrained, and as far as he could tell- without pain or injury. 

He slowly opened his eyes to find himself no longer in the tent belonging to the Brother Salt, but to have been moved somewhere else and was now laying on the ground surrounded by an unusual amount of plants. Without doubt, this was the work of fey magic, though who would have healed him was anyone’s guess. Not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth, he stood with speed and made his way to the tent opening where from behind the flimsy canvas entrance he could hear the distinct sounds of battle. 

The darkness of the night was a blessing in his bid to escape as he slipped mercifully unnoticed by the preoccupied Paladins who were deep in battle with Utha's soldiers. His wonder at the reason for this attack was enough to give him pause for the briefest of moments, but his desire to be as far away from this place as possible tipped the edge on his curiosity- and stumbling upon an already tacked horse, he took his chance and rode away as quickly as possible. 

His ride back to the fey camp was swift and met without resistance, and upon returning he found that there was much chaos amongst the remaining fey. He observed that many lay injured, with healers tending to a litany of wounds that could have only been sustained in battle. Fearing that the camp had been attacked in his absence, he rode straight over to the large tent at the edge of the camp to find someone who might be able to give him the answers to his questions. In the centre of the commotion he spotted Arthur and Kaze deep in conversation with two Tusk clan members. Upon seeing him, the apparent heated argument ceased as they turned to stare at him with a look of disbelief.

“My God, you really have mastered the knack of not dying haven't you?!” Arthur exclaimed with a mixture of wonder and awe as Gawain slid off the horse back onto solid ground. “We thought you dead, how- how are you not dead?” he asked with a slight grin pulling on his features.

“I honestly can't answer that, I am so sure that I should be that I too am struggling with believing that I currently live,” he said in genuine wonder. 

Arthur and Kaze filled Gawain in on the events that had passed in his absence, hearing that his people has come so close to a kind of freedom and a safer life, only to have it snatched away so violently at the last second felt like a stab to the heart. He had seen it for himself that many were injured, but they’d made it back to the camp together, and they’d sure as hell face whatever was to come next together.

Gawain was more than prepared and happy to help lead the fey in the absence of their queen, but seeing as Arthur and Kaze appeared to have things relatively under control within the camp, Gawain took the opportunity to slip away into the large tent Arthur and Kaze had been based in, and at invitation was kindly offered one of the currently unused cots in there. Gawain took a moment to just sit and catch his breath. On the edge of the cot, he assessed his arms, his chest, anywhere he was tortured by the blind monk- amazed to find fresh and seemingly unmarred skin. Whoever or whatever healed him, he certainly owed them his life. 

The approaching twilight brought with it a calming silence as most of the fey began to make their way to their relative dwellings for some much needed rest. Just as Gawain was about to stand in search of something to eat, he heard a ear splitting scream from just outside his tent proceeded by a loud thud, and then a voice he previously believed he would never have heard again.

_“Don’t you bloody touch him, stay back- or I’ll gouge your bloody eyes out and feed them to the dogs for breakfast,”_ came the colourful threat from the other sided of the tent, unmistakably spoken by the one and only Squirrel. 

Gawain rushed toward the voices, and sure enough, Squirrel was by miracle- standing there, alive and screaming bloody murder. Last he saw of him, he too was in the clutches of the red Paladin no bought awaiting an untimely death. But before he could express his joy and utter surprise at seeing the boy alive and back with his people, Gawain noticed another figure that lay in an ungraceful heap beside Squirrel, and to his shock, realised that the apparently unconscious person on the ground was most definitely the cause of the frightened scream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there is any confusion, this chapter rewinds in time just a little to Lancelot and Percival prior to reaching the Fey camp   
> :)

Percival shifted slightly in a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable numbness that comes from riding for longer than is comfortable. The daylight was slowly fading and the air began to chill again. Their journey had remained constant and Percival was starting to feel effects of it, though he’d never speak them aloud, he was a knight after all, a knight is brave and can endure far worse than a little hunger and discomfort. 

With a loud growl of his stomach, Percival surveyed the landscape they were headed through, there was nothing within sight that could even possibly be considered edible, even to a goat. Not that they’d be stopping as far as he could tell, and if Lancelot was correct, they should be reaching the Fey camp within a matter of hours now. He had become very aware of the failing health of the monk behind him, with the more time that passed, the more that Lancelot seemed to tilt to one side or the other before correcting his stance and re-affirming his grip about Percival’s waist. 

He knew that Lancelot was badly injured, and that he was attempting to conceal the extent of the damage. Percival just hoped they’d make it back before Lancelot was beyond a healers help. He’d seen the whole fight between the monk and the Trinity guard, the moment Lancelot was disarmed and struck to the ground had been horrific. Lancelot had chosen to free him, chosen to save his life and it seemed that as a result- he was going to die for his actions. Percival doesn’t regret having taken up that sword, he would have died at the hands of the slimy blind monk if it hadn’t been for Lancelot, so he owed Lancelot a debt- owed him his life, and like a true knight he had been prepared to see that debt through. 

And yet they’d survived, if only by the skin of their teeth. Percival had never seen anyone fight quit like the Weeping Monk had, he was clearly trained to the highest of standards and Percival guessed that not even the Green Knight himself would be able to win a fight against him.

“Would you teach me, how to fight like you do?” he asked hopefully, “I know I'm pretty damn skilled already, but I guess you can never be too old to learn a new trick or two,” he added. He felt Lancelot huff in amusement over his shoulder.

“I am sure that you are a very skilled warrior, and you are right indeed, that practice is the way to master your still. However, I fear that your brothers will not accept my presence amongst them, I will leave them in peace as soon as you are safely returned,” he said with an air of resignation.

“What?! No, you can’t leave, that’s not right, you’ve changed sides – you’re one of us now!” He exclaimed in haste, “you must stay, you can help us, once they know what you've done I'm sure they’ll accept you, and you were forced to work with the red Paladins so it wasn't really your fault, you were just taught wrong,” Percival pleaded with the monk, he really did like Lancelot now that he knew him, he just seemed like he had been lost all his life and that what he really needed was a true family to show him real kindness. He couldn’t let him leave, not in the state he was in anyways, he would think of something, he was sure he would.

“My sister will listen to me, she’s our queen by the way, I know that she'll hear me out, I won't let them turn you away,” he stated with confidence. 

“You really are a brave lad aren't you,” Lancelot responded quietly, sounding very distant once again. 

A covering of dark trees came into view in the near distance, the path below foot leading straight to edge of it. The retreating sun cast long shadows to greet them as they entered the forest. Just as he was about to ask Lancelot if he believed that they would make it to the camp soon, he caught sight of some very familiar tents in the not too far distance. 

Percival exhaled in relief, they’d finally made it. They rode for the closest edge of the Fey camp, but as they reached the first tent and before he could even think of announcing his arrival to anyone that would hear him- he heard a loud scream proceeded by the unmistakable whoosh of an arrow slicing through the air. 

To his horror, he felt Lancelot fall off the side off of Goliath’s saddle and crash with a sickening smack to the forest floor, an arrow protruding aggressively from his shoulder. 

Percival didn’t have to think twice, he unsheathed the short blade he had swiftly snatched from the ground during their escape from the Paladin camp, and leapt down from the saddle ready to defend themselves against the attack. 

“Move aside boy!” someone shouted desperately to his left, “let me finish him off before he has the chance to move!” and as he turned to look, he saw a small group of Tusks, with one very large Tusk warrior reaching for his next arrow. The warrior nocked his weapon and raised it- aiming straight for the downed monk and advancing closer to their position. 

“Don’t you bloody touch him, stay back- or I’ll gouge your bloody eyes out and feed them to the dogs for breakfast!” he cried as he tried to stand as much in the way of the weapon and it’s intended target. A quick glance down at Lancelot and Percival could tell he was out cold, he gripped the blade a little tighter and bared his teeth in anger at the Tusk. 

But just moments before he thought he would have to put his blade to use, Percival watched in shock as a Fey he believed without doubt to be dead burst forth from the closest tent. 

“Squirrel!” cried the advancing Green Knight, “By the Gods- how on Earth are you.....” but his sentence came to an abrupt halt, along with his stride. 

“Squirrel, move! Over here- right now!” Gawain bid, eyes trained on the unresponsive monk as he carefully removed his sword from it’s sheath. 

Percival knew he had to be swift in his response, how he approached this situation now would no doubt determine if Lancelot was to be executed right in front of him within the next few seconds. 

“Don’t hurt him, _please_ \- he’s no threat, I swear it by the gods!” he begged, “he saved me from the red Paladins, he brought me back but he’s hurt, please, he needs a healer!” Percival implored, praying that the Green Knight trust his words and help them.

...........................................

Gawain stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide as he took in the scene in front of him. There was Squirrel, who by all means should be dead, but was standing there clear as day, alive and defending none other than the Weeping Monk. 

The look in the boy’s eyes showed he was deadly serious in what he had said. Gawain trod carefully in the direction of the downed monk, sword still gripped tight and ready for use if need be. 

“Please, don’t hurt him,” Squirrel desperately implored once again. 

From a mere few feet away, he could see that the monk was indeed truly unconscious, a thick trail of dark blood flowing steadily from his hair line tracking down his face, and blood blooming freely from the arrow in his shoulder bleeding through the fabric of his cloak. 

Gawain had little time to consider the options he had, the longer he left the monk undefended, the more likely it was that a Tusk would slay him anyway.

“You,” he turned pointing at the Tusk warrior, “fetch me a healer, quickly as you can,” he instructed with all the authority he could muster behind the request. 

The Tusk huffed in disbelief, “Knight, you can not be serious....” he scoffed in disgust.

“Do as I say, trust me- he will be more use to us alive, go- send a healer!” he ordered, and to his relief, the Tusks dispersed leaving him to turn his attention back to Squirrel.

“Squirrel, help me get him up,” he said swiftly, looking down at the still unconscious monk, “over there, to that tent, quickly.” 

Gawain sheathed his sword and moved to hoist the monk up by his side with Squirrel on his other taking what little weight of the monk he could manage. Between the both of them, they were able to make it to the tent Gawain had been gifted use of and swiftly lay down the monk on the cot furthest from the entrance. 

Gawain reached for some rope at the edge of the cot and began to tightly lash the monk's hands together.

“What are you doing?!” Squirrel cried and reached out as if to stop him in his tracks. 

“Squirrel, he is our enemy, if someone was to walk in here and find him unrestrained they would slit his throat before you could prevent it, you wish him to live – then I must do this.” He expressed in truth. 

Once the monk was suitably bound, Gawain turned his attention to the next pressing matter. The monk was clearly very injured, and Gawain was no healer but he did know the basics of healing battle injuries. He grabbed some cloth from his side and tore it into rough strips. 

“Hold this here lad,” he said taking Squirrel's hands and placing them over some cloth he wrapped around the arrow wound, “press down firmly, but try not to jolt the arrow,” he instructed, and Squirrel nodded in understanding, keeping his small hands steadily in place as Gawain removed his. 

The monk still did not stir as Gawain applied another bundle of cloth to the large gash on his head, and upon closer inspection, he could see that this wasn’t the only damage the monk had obviously sustained to the head. A barely healing laceration lay angrily upon the other side of his face, leading up and beyond his hairline matting it into a sickly dark mess. 

“Do you have any injuries that need tending Squirrel?” Gawain questioned, only taking his eyes off the monk for a second to asses the health of the boy, “Did the red Paladins hurt you before you could escape?” 

“I am fine, I’m not hurt, Lancelot killed them before they could touch me, he killed the Trinity guard too- but they hurt him real bad before he could,” Squirrel said at speed.

“.....Lancelot?” Gawain repeated in question, confusion tugging at his features. Only to realise that the boy had meant the Weeping Monk, so that was his true name then? But before he could press the matter, Gawain heard movement at the tent entrance, and then the sudden halt of advancing footsteps from just behind him.

“Gods..... you want me to heal _him?!”_ came the disbelieving gasp from Pym. 

Gawain turned at the sound of her voice to see her rooted to the spot, eyes wide and unsure.

“Pym, please- trust me, we need your help, what do we do?” Gawain asked the motionless girl. She eyed the scene in front of her, her gaze darting between the monk and himself. 

“Pym! Come on- help us- he won't hurt you I promise!” Squirrel yelled from where he knelt at the other side of the cot.

_“Squirrel?!”_ She cried, only just having noticed his presence, “Why are you...... _how...?”_

“Just help!!” he demanded, interrupting whatever question she was about to ask. She eyed the monk one more time before taking a deep breath and moving to where he lay, clutching her healers bag a little too tightly.

Gawain saw the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at the sight of the monk's bound wrists as she set her bag down at her side. 

“Let me see,” she bid quietly, and Gawain removed the blood soaked cloth from the monk's temple. “Damn, that’s nasty,” she said with little emotion behind the statement. 

“Squirrel, I need you to fetch me some clean water,” Pym instructed as she rummaged clumsily through her bag for some fresh cloth.

“Piss off, I'm not leaving him, not left undefended for anyone to kill him!” Squirrel spat out. 

“I will keep an eye on him Squirrel, I promise no one will hurt him,” Gawain said to the boy.

Squirrel turned to look at him, eyes pleading and innocent, “You promise?” he asked desperately.

“On my honour as a knight, I swear it.” he assured the boy. He watched as Squirrel took one more look at the monk, nodding to himself before allowing Pym to take the pressure around the arrow and leave the tent in a hurry and in search of fresh water.

Gawain was, to say the least, very shocked at Squirrel’s protectiveness toward the Weeping monk, there were so many questions buzzing around his head that he wasn’t even sure where to start. He looked down at the monk, Lancelot, as apparently his name was, and he looked deathly pale, the marks of his Weeping eyes dark in contrast, but he also looked so young- without his hood and a sword in hand, Gawain could tell that the monk couldn't be any older than he was, perhaps a good number of years younger in fact. 

He looked up when Pym shifted nervously as she took a closer look at the arrow.

“I need to pull this out,” she said looking rather horrified at the prospect, “but it will be very painful, he will no doubt awaken the second I remove it,” she informed Gawain, “hold him down and make sure he stays as still as possible, or the blood loss will be what kills him and not the Fey in this camp.” 

Gawain nodded in understanding, and removing his hands from the monk’s head he placed one across his uninjured shoulder and the other across his chest, holding him in place. 

Pym took one more moment to arrange both her hands to grip as firmly and as close to the base of the arrow as she could. She lifted her head and looked at Gawain, a silent question in her features awaiting his approval to proceed. With a sharp nod of his head, Pym pulled the arrow clean out in one swift motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so kindly to those who have left kudos and such lovely comments :D you guys have really made my day!!!! Hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it. Lots of hurt and comfort to come, I can't resist :')


	3. Chapter 3

_“Father.....father I’m sorry, I.....I.. it was an accident- I didn’t mean to.....” the young boy pleaded desperately, his feet barely skimming the grass below as he was dragged none too carefully by the scruff of the neck toward his father’s tent._

_He was wordlessly thrust down upon the rough ground, hands and knees scraping hard as he barely prevented his face from colliding with the dirt. He knew how this would go, knew what was to come, but somehow that knowledge only served to make his hands shake a little more in dread and apprehension. He carefully shifts to the kneeling position he knew was expected and was all too familiar with, head bowing in submission in the eyes of God, his heavenly cross looming in judgement just a few feet away on the alter in front of him._

_“The devil, my boy,” his father started, voice dripping with holiness as he slowly walks around the alter, “hunts out the weak, exploits the feeble minded and seeks to corrupt and destroy,” he preaches._

_“Discipline, scripture and God’s holy work are the weapons against evil. Our holy mission is the sole purpose for our existence, God’s work is done through us and we must strive to do his bidding, we must block out the devil and destroy his followers with fire.”_

_“You are consumed by the devil my child, an abomination, your very skin makes God weep. In being demon born you must work twice as hard to prove to the lord that you are worthy of his forgiveness- of his love and a place in his eternal land of light in the afterlife.”_

_The boy trembles gently, holding back the tears threatening to spill at any moment, he knew that any show of weakness would not serve to improve his current situation, but would in fact earn him a harsher punishment. He thinks back to just a mere few moments ago, and to the cause of his impending retribution._

_He had snuck off from the Paladin camp and made his way down to the river at the bottom of the fields, spear in hand and an excited smile gracing his young face. It was that time of year when food was scarce and the little they had in the camp had to be shared by many. He was desperate to impress his father, to show that he was good, that he was useful and worthy of his love, so he decided he would surprise him by bringing back some fish from the lake, he had seen plenty swimming around it the previous day, and knew that his skill with a spear would gift him with a bountiful catch._

_He had not been at the river too long before realising that the largest fish were mainly centred around the furthest edge of the waters. In determination, he grasped onto the branches of a low hanging tree, ready to stretch toward his prized catch. But in that moment his hand came in contact with the green of the branches, the same colour mimicked and bled uncontrollably to his hand, slowly ascending up his arm. He swiftly removed his hand as if the tree had scolded his skin, but the loss of his hold on the branch had his balance tip unfavourably and he found himself hurtling toward the river before he could stop himself._

_The second he was able to bring his head back above the waters, he frantically pulled his hands back into sight, terrified of what he might see. And sure enough, the unholy green that had appeared just seconds ago was still there, but mercifully- was quickly receding back to the pale pink it should have been. Breathing a shaky huff of relief, he turned to find an easy way back onto the river bank, but as his eyes met the edge of the water, he spotted his father, anger and shame fiercely etched like the burning sun on his face..... he had seen the whole thing then._

_The boy’s knees began to ache, river water still dripping down his face and neck as he stared desperately at the holy cross in front of him, his father standing mightily behind the alter in judgement._

_“I’m sorry, father,” he whispered, voice trembling as he lowered his gaze further, desperate for forgiveness._

_“The lord requires more than just words boy, you must suffer for your sins,” he says as he rounds the alter to stand just to his left, “you must deny the devil within you, flay him from your skin, cast him out and beg the lord’s forgiveness,” he commands._

_The boy raises his eyes to see his father holding out a short weapon- a wooden pole with chain links hanging from the end, and the tears finally fall, tracking the cursed birth marks already disgracing his face, a mark of the devil as his father has said._

_“Courage boy, repent and beg for your forgiveness, nothing is more righteous than doing god's work. Suffer as he does in your presence and make me proud,” his father demands. The boy knows what is expected, knows what must be done._

_He removes his shirt and awaits the first blow._

.....................................

The very moment that Pym removed the arrow, the monk released a gut wrenching scream. His eyes flew open, only to be squeezed shut in pain a mere moment later, his face contorting in suffering. Gawain held him down, but only just- as Pym hurried about with tending to the bleeding wound the arrow left behind.

The monk’s body shook with vigour as he blindly fought against the hands holding him down, sweat beading along his brow. The movement jostled Pym and she gave Gawain an exasperated glance, bidding him to keep control of the situation. 

_“For god’s sake stop moving!”_ he cried, attempting make his voice heard above the commotion, and the second the words left his lips, the monk stilled, so much to the point- that he looked as if he’d stopped breathing all together. 

....................................

Percival was quick on his feet, he’d snatched up a bucket he found at he edge of the camp and ran at full speed to the river behind the tents. He dragged it through the surface of the water only just filling it half way, before turning heel and making a bee line for Green Knight's tent, paying no mind at all to the way his careless footing was causing the water to slosh above the rim and dampen his clothes. 

He made it to within a few feet of the tent entrance before skidding to a dead halt, his eyes widening in sudden shock at the sound of a very loud scream...... _Lancelot,_ his mind supplied- that had been his voice.

Percival shook his head into gear and closed the remaining distance between himself and the tent in view, rushing through the entrance at near full speed.

“What the bloody hell have you idiots done?!” he cried the moment he was inside. He paced over to where Lancelot lay deathly still, the only sign that he was even alive was the ever so slight shaking of entire body. 

Squirrel abandoned the water at Pym's side, completely ignoring her protest at the mess he made placing it down none too carefully and rushed to Gawain’s edge of the cot.

“Is he okay?” he asked hurriedly, not even waiting for a reply before turning to look at the monk, “Lancelot, are you okay?!” he begged for answer.

At the sound of his name, Lancelot’s eyes flew open, looking like a startled deer and taking in what looked like a very painful gulp of air.

Percival watched as Pym halted in her ministration the second Lancelot’s gaze turned upon her, a wary look in her eyes as she pulled her bloodied hands back away from the monk. His head then turned to Gawain and finally his sight caught Percival. The look of relief on his face was evident even to him, even though he still looked more tense than could be comfortable. 

.............................

Gawain noticed the immediate look of relief upon seeing Squirrel the second the monk lay eyes on him. He watched as his breathing levelled out to a more stable rate as he appeared to come more into consciousnesses. 

“I am not here to harm anyone,” the monk speaks quietly, “I wish only to return the boy to safety,” he says turning to look Gawain almost in the eyes. 

Gawain regards the statement warily, as much as he wishes this to be the simple truth of the matter, he knows he must tread carefully, having an enemy at the heart of their camp could be a dire move for the fate of the remaining Fey. 

He recalls his last interaction with the monk, back within that hellish tent belonging to Brother Salt, he remembers how he monk parroted the words of the red Paladin, how each statement sounded forced, like a script that was burned so brightly within his mind that it out shone anything other than the Paladin’s version of the truth. But even Gawain could see it, could _feel_ the cracks in the monk’s belief, he wondered what on god’s earth had they subjected him to for to make him too scared to do anything other than blindly follow their teachings. 

Gawain hoped beyond belief that the monk had heard his words back in that tent, hoped that they had somehow reached somewhere deep within him to force him to see that what he and the red Paladins were doing was completely unfounded and wholly wrong. 

“Is it true, what Squirrel says- that you rescued him from the Paladin camp, that you turned on your brother’s and Trinity guard?” He asks whilst still keeping a firm hold on the monk.

A sudden look of despair seems to flash across the monk’s eyes, so fleeting that Gawain isn’t certain that it was definitely there at all. The monk parts his lips as if to speak, but instead just lowers his gaze and nods in answer to the question. 

“Why?” he responds, he has to know, has to be certain that this was not a trick. 

The monk lifts his gaze to Squirrel for a moment before lowering them to his bound hands, “He’s just a boy, I would not see him harmed like....”

“What.... like the countless Fey you have harmed?” Pym pipes up in a sudden burst of anger. 

To his surprise, the monk only flinches ever so slightly at the statement, his bloodied face a complete closed book of emotion as he offers no response to what she said.

“Shut up, Pym!” Squirrel retorts with hostility, once again greatly shocking Gawain at hearing the young Fey so easily jumping to defend the Weeping Monk. 

“There is little that I can do right now without speaking to the others in charge here, but first we must finish with your wounds, are you prepared to allow Pym to continue?” he asks the monk warily. 

The monk’s eyes widen a fraction at the question, and the tension that had only just slightly seemed to drain from his shoulders appeared to return even worse than before. 

Gawain huffed in exasperation, this was not going to be easy by the looks of things. “Pym is a great healer,” he said, ignoring the indignant snort that the girl let out at the statement, “if you allow her to tend your wounds, I will be in a better position to plead your case with Arthur and Kaze,” he implored. He did not miss the way that Squirrel shot him a hopeful look, nor the way the monk looked as though he was fighting his own internal battle.

Moments passed in silence, so much so that Gawain wasn’t even sure if the monk had heard what he said, or was aware that he was awaiting an answer. But just as he was about to repeat his question, the monk gently nodded, once again eying the rope binding his hands.

“I will remove that, but just for long enough for you to remove your cloak and shirts, then I am afraid I will have to replace the bindings for now,” he informed the monk. And by God, if he thought the guy had looked spooked at the mention of Pym tending his wounds, well, he must have looked positively mortified at the request to remove his clothing. But once again, his expression blanked and the look of resignation returned as he nodded in compliance. 

Gawain eyed Pym to check that she was still on-board with administering treatment, she looked back at him with an unimpressed look, but gestured her hands in a sign for him to proceed.

“Squirrel, could you go and fetch Arthur and Kaze, ask them to meet me outside this tent in a short while?” Gawain said turning his eyes to the young Fey. 

“Like hell am I leaving again- do you think I’m _stupid.....?!”_ he spat, but before either Squirrel could continue, or Gawain respond, the monk levelled the boy with a gentle glance and swiftly intervened.

“It’s okay, Percival, I will be fine. Do as your Green Knight bids,” he gently requests. And once again, Gawain finds himself completely dumb struck by not only the monk’s behaviour, or the way he so casually calls Squirrel by his true birth name- a name that he knows not many have the pleasure to call him without the boy attempting to stick them in their sleep for using it,- but by how Squirrel turns to the monk, defiance still clearly painted on his face, but then choses to nod and accept the request without further argument. Squirrel takes one last sharp look at Pym, as if silently daring her to proceed with anything less than total care toward the monk, and then turns to hurry out the tent.

With Squirrel gone to fetch the others, Gawain turns his focus back to the injured monk. He cautiously removes the bindings around his hands and places then to one side. The monk shifts slowly to something that could be described loosely as sitting, looking very uncomfortable and none too happy. 

“I would normally leave you to your privacy, but I’m sure you can understand that this will not be possible in this circumstance, and I will not leave Pym to attend you alone,” he states after a short stretch of silence. 

Again, the monk nodded in understanding, eyes downcast as he takes a few shallow breaths. 

“What are your injuries, apart from the ones I already know of?” Pym inquires. 

The monk turns his head in her direction, “I am fine, I will heal without aid,” he says quietly.

And woah is this guy stubborn or what, Gawain thinks. “Just, remove your shirt and let her determine if you need the help or not,” he snaps. And at the order, something seems to shift in the monk’s expression, a look of fear was it?! No, surely not....

But before he could voice any concern, the monk begins to remove his cloak and the top half of his clothing. Gawain sighs internally, considering that it was so evident that the monk was hurt even with his attempts to conceal the fact, then surely he could only benefit from getting checked over.

As soon as the final piece of cloth was removed from the monk's back, Gawain had to stifle his gasp at the extent of the injuries before him. The monk's entire skin was littered with dark bruising and deep wounds, some still open and angrily red. But nothing compared to the litany of welts that covered the majority of his back, red strikes lay crisscross above healed paler scaring of the same size. 

Gawain tore his gaze away from the mess of the monk’s back to look in concern over at Pym, and she too was sporting a slightly sickened expression. They both knew, this was no battle wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah thank you again for all the lovely comments!!!!! :D sooo much appreciated I'm honestly smiling so much :) very addicted to writing this right now so hopefully updates very soon! Literally wrote this instead of sleeping haha ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

Never before had Gawain felt such a sharp reverse in emotion, there was no preventing the surge of concern he felt at the sight of the damaged monk in front of him. 

He knew it, from that very conversation he’d had with the him in brother Salt’s tent, that there was more to the Weeping monk’s actions than his just blindly following the teachings of the red Paladins. Mind control, brain washing.... even blackmail had crossed his mind for reasons as to how the Paladins had such control over another. But now he could see the evidence, the awful truth behind the Weeping monk..... torture. 

He did not kid himself in believing that the Paladins held themselves back at physical torture alone, and he winced at the thought. 

Gawain mentally shakes his head of his wondering thoughts and looks at the monk, he looks so unbelievably vulnerable, such a contrast to what he is used to seeing, his eyes are fixed in a downcast gaze and Gawain can see the slightest tremble along his whole body, though he can tell that the monk was desperately attempting to control himself from the strain he could see so evident in every muscle. And in that instance, Gawain felt a sudden rush of anger, not toward the monk in front of him, but to those who had mistreated him so badly. 

“Who did this to you?” he said in disbelief, his words edging toward sounding more like a shocked statement than an actual question. Unsurprisingly, the monk gave no answer, but appeared to close in on himself just a fraction more. 

Moments passed and Pym was still yet to continue with her treatment of his wounds, Gawain looked up at her once again and saw reflected in her eyes, the very same doubt, concern and questions that he also, was experiencing right then. But the longer the moments passed, the more the monk appeared to be reacting negatively to the prolonged silence. The second Gawain heard the monk’s breath hitch, he knew he had to do something calm him down. 

“Hey, look at me....” he bids, to which he’s not sure if the monk was refusing to, or if he just didn’t hear him speak, so he tried a different tactic, “Look at me,” he said again in a voice that left no room for negotiation, and as he did so, he gently grasped the monk by his shoulders- mindful of the injuries, in an attempt to gain his attention. The moment he had hold of him, the monk's eyes shot up and made firm contact with his. He felt a moment of resistance, a second where he thought the monk was close to pulling away from his hold on him, but then it was gone, and he sat- eyes wide and looking straight at him.  
And damn, were those eyes piercing.......... no, _no_ – stay on track, he thought, once again mentally shaking his head of unhelpful things.

“This is not right, _none of it_ \- no one deserves to be treated so badly,” he says, and probably a little too harshly, judging by the slight flinch he feels under his hands, “family does not treat one another as such, respect and love should not be sought through fear and control....... do you understand?” he continues, eyes pleading for comprehension, for the monk to know that his place was not with the red Paladins- but with his true kind, with his Fey brothers. 

The monk holds his gaze for one more beat of silence, before deflecting it solemnly back down toward his own hands with no response. Gawain draws a deep breath, allowing the built up tension in his own chest to only slightly loosen. He lets go of the monk’s shoulders and gestures for Pym to continue her work.

“Pym will patch you up, but I will need to re-bind your hands for now,” he says apologetically, taking up the previously discarded rope from before. The only response to which he receives is a small, quick nod of the head from the monk. 

Pym makes quick work of the monk’s injuries, she places various salves and ointments on his wounds, cleans and patches up what she can- and by the time she is finished, the water Squirrel had fetched for them was as red as a sword after a victorious battle. The monk looked positively exhausted by the end of it, and Gawain was sure that he was hanging to consciousness by a thread. 

Without warning, Squirrel came busting through the tent entrance causing Gawain to almost jump out of his very skin, and for god’s sake- can that kid not do _anything_ lest it be at a thousand miles an hour?! 

“Arthur and Kaze are coming,” Squirrel addresses him between puffs of breath, “do not worry, I have told them everything, though they bring with them some stupid Tusk guard I have never met, I told them it was not necessary, but does anyone ever listen to me, like- _ever?!_ ” he rants to himself. 

Gawain chuckles at the genuine sincerity in Squirrel's complaint, but before he could comment, Arthur and Kaze made their entrance too.

“So it is true...” Gawain hears Kaze say, sounding a mixture of shocked and wary. 

“Gawain, we would speak with you,” Arthur beckons, “outside,” he gestures with a tilt of his head. “Galehault will stand guard in here whilst we speak,” he adds as said Tusk enters the tent.

“I’ll stay with Lancelot,” Squirrel says- warily eyeing up the Tusk none too kindly. 

“No, Squirrel,” Arthur begins to protest, “I uh, think it best that you.....” 

“It’s fine, Arthur, leave him he, he’ll be fine,” Gawain interjects quickly, before Squirrel can beat him to it with a retort rude enough to burn the soul and land him in trouble. The boy smiles up at him, openly pleased at being sided with, and makes his way over the monk. 

“Pym, would you fetch Squirrel and..... Lancelot some food, I'm sure they must both be pretty half starving by now,” Gawain says whilst standing to move toward the others, pretending he did not see the way Lancelot's eyes shot up towards him at the use of his name, nor the way his lips gently parted in apparent disbelief. He also swiftly ignored the pang his chest gave at the sight. He watched as Pym left in search of food and as Galehault took up an intimidatingly large stance near by the entrance of the tent before leaving with Arthur and Kaze in tow. 

....................................

Removing his cloak was always going to be difficult enough, but having to lay his skin bare for them to see? Well, that was just a whole new level of discomfort for Lancelot. He couldn’t predict how they would react, would they take joy in seeing his injuries? Would they wish to add to them and punish him further for his sins......?

But to his surprise, neither of them appeared to take much joy in seeing his injuries, and instead, the Green Knight had firmly denounced the use of violent treatment he had received from the Paladins. He was too ashamed to admit that the scarring and wounds on his back were caused by his own hand, that he had that many visible sins to repent for would surely disgust them further. 

When the Green Knight placed his hands on his shoulders, his mind had immediately repelled against the touch, nothing pleasant ever proceeded such a gesture- but he knew better than to struggle. However, to his bewilderment, he saw no ill intent in the man’s eyes, nor heard any falsehood in his words. He’d felt as though the words were genuine, and meant kindly, it made his heart ache in a way it never had done before- and he had to tear his eyes away before he looked too deeply into the reasons why. 

The girl, Pym- he thinks he caught her name, had tended to his wounds fairly adequately, well, she did no worse than any Paladin healer would have done in any case. And now he was sat with Percival and under the watch of a Tusk as the Green Knight takes leave to speak with the other Fey leaders. 

Percival turns to him, his eyes show that he is clearly tired, but apparently not done with the day just yet. “Your horse is in our stable area by the way, I’ve seen to it that he has been given some of our finest hay. Come to think of it, now that I’ve seen him in a more... flattering light, he doesn’t appear to be as ugly as first I thought,” the boy chats on, taking little time for breath- and none for a response. But Lancelot does not mind, he quite enjoys the ease of a one sided conversation now and then, and he can’t help but smile ever so slightly at his words. 

Percival’s comments and observations continue for a while, some of it he hears, but at times he can’t help it when his mind wanders, that is until one particular comment of Percival’s cuts through the fog.

“...... yeah, best we get that.....” He points in a general direction with a slight look of distaste at the religious marking on the back of his head, “that, mark covered, might help to make you look less, umm, Paladin-ish,” Percival suggests with a small shrug. 

Lancelot’s gut twists at the prospect, and though he knows that it is probably the most sensible cause of action to take- in covering up the religious marking, there is still a deep rooted fear within him, a fear of displeasing his father, of displeasing God and damning himself beyond redemption. But who is he kidding, surely he is damned to hell anyway, be it the Catholic, the Christian or the Fey hell, there is surely a place reserved in the very depths of the fires for him. 

He looks down at Percival, this mischievous, head strong, out spoken Fey boy, who has lost his home, his lands, his parents and many of his Fey brothers, but who can still find it within himself to show true care and acceptance- even to a former enemy, and it makes Lancelot feel more ashamed than he can bare to comprehend. 

The horror of what he has put this boy through, both directly and indirectly- fills his heart with so much pain. “I’m sorry, Percival,” his voice trembles, barely a whisper above the roaring of self hated in his mind, “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done...” he chokes, and dares to look the boy in the eye, not knowing what to expect, but the moment he sees the tears well up in the boy’s eyes, Percival all but lunges at him- knocking him back and circling his young arms around his neck in a tight embrace.

“I’ve already forgiven you,” Percival whispers.

.............................

Gawain finishes up with their discussions regarding the newest visitor to the camp. It feels strange to be defending the Weeping monk, but he just knows it is the right thing to do. They had eventually decided, when all was said, that the monk would be allowed to remain- though under constant watch and on the strict condition that he have no access to any weapons, or their plans. Gawain knew that there would be many within the remaining Fey community who would call for blood within moments of hearing that he was amongst them, so preventing an attempt on the monk's life was an immediate concern. 

They decided that it would be sensible to have at least one of the three of themselves with the monk at any time. Gawain offered to take first watch, he didn't think that he would be sleeping any time soon any way, and with that, Arthur and Kaze bid him goodnight and left in search of new sleeping quarters. Just as he was about to turn and head back inside the tent, Pym returned- holding a shallow bowl ladened with bread, fruits and cheese. 

“Pym, thank you so much,” he says to the girl, “I know it can’t have been easy, helping him knowing what he has done, but I really do appreciate it. Please, go- take some rest, you deserve it,” he commands as he bundles the plate of food into his arms from hers.

“Sure, just.....uh, keep an eye on him, ok?” she mumbled with the flicker of a smile gracing her features. And Gawain can without doubt, hear concern deeply laced in her tone, though be it for the monk’s own wellbeing, or the safety of the Fey against him- he wasn't too sure. 

Taking a deep and dizzying breath, Gawain turns and heads back inside the tent, quietly dismissing the Tusk guard at the entrance. But moments after entering, the sight before him causes his feet to freeze in place. In the corner of the tent, Lancelot lay gently, eyes closed and propped up against the cot backrest, but what caused him to freeze in a stunned position was the fact that Squirrel too, was firmly tucked up against the monk in the same cot and was contently sleeping away. 

The soft movement of his feet however appear to disturb Lancelot- as his eyes open and shift to look in Gawain’s direction, though from the swiftness of the action, Gawain doubts that he was really asleep to begin with. 

He bids his feet to move as he walks towards the unfairly heart-warming scene in front of him. He knows that Squirrel has little in the way of friends, let alone family, so to see him behave with such trust and open affection toward one who also reciprocates it was wonderful.

“For you and Squirrel, if you’re up to eating yet that is,” he offers and gestures to the food, placing it down by the cot side. Then he looks at the monk's still bound hands and decides to take the chance. 

Lancelot's gaze never leaves his as he removes a short but sharp hunting knife concealed within a hidden sheath. He moves to slice the rope binding the monk's hands, pausing for just a second to make contact with his eyes once he was done. There he sees a mixture of confusion and mild surprise. 

“We’ve come to an agreement, we have decided to allow you to remain with us. You must understand that we are taking a huge risk in allowing this, there will be many in this camp who will wish you dead come dawn, but you are a Fey...... and you belong here, with your people,” he explains, “it may not be easy, not to begin with, but prove to them that you mean no harm, show them that you side with us and I'm sure you will be accepted, given time,” he implores. 

He sees as Lancelot takes a deep breath and swallows around which ever reply he had to that, and instead, he looks down at the boy tucked at his side and gently nods in understanding. Considering how little he guy speaks, Gawain was not surprised at the lack of verbal response. It makes him wonder if that is another trait he was conditioned to comply with, forced by the Paladins to accept and follow without question,- this was definitely an aspect of the monk Gawain felt determined to change. 

He sighs in worry, the following days to come would surely prove to be a challenge to say the least. He stands and moves to the vacant cot, and taking the weight off his aching feet, he settles in for a long night, sleep would not come easy, not for a long while, he was sure of it.

He looks over once again at Squirrel’s sleeping form, the boy must be thoroughly exhausted, he hadn’t moved an inch throughout their conversation. But just as the room falls to a silence, Gawain hears Lancelot shift slightly.

“Thank you, Green Knight,” he says quietly, blue eyes catching with his across the room.

“You’re welcome,” he replies after a beat, “and is Gawain,” he adds softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for such encouraging comments and kindly left kudos :) brings a ray of sunshine to my day ❤️ 
> 
> Next chapter already in the works ❤️❤️


	5. Chapter 5

Dawn breaks, and the gentle caress of morning breeze carries with it the blackbird’s call. Gawain stirs in that foggy in-between state of slumber and wakefulness, the birds in the near distance continuing their chatter......

........ _‘and if they do, I’ll stick a rusty arrow through their skull so fast they won’t know what’s hit them'_ .... the blackbird threatens. Well, that was uncharacteristically sinister for a,- uh, wait... not a blackbird, he concludes as he decidedly sides with consciousnesses over his now fading dreams. 

“What is this fussing I hear?” Gawain grumbles into his pillow as he shifts and rubs at his heavy eyes. He looks to the other side of the room and is greeted with the sight of Squirrel chowing down at the food from last night, fitting more into his mouth at any one time than should be possible. 

“I _said,”_ he mumbles between bites, “if anyone dares to think of taking their chances with hurting Lancelot, I’ll stick'em first before they can take a shot at it,” he concludes, stuffing a blackberry in with the half chewed bread.

Gawain closes his eyes for just a moment and massages his temple, how Squirrel is always so switched on is beyond his comprehension. He’s clearly missed half a conversation here, but before he can even think to inquire, Lancelot beats him to a response.

“There is no sense in further endangering yourself on my behalf, Percival, I will not see you outcast or even harmed in my name,” he hears him say firmly and without room for argument, to which Squirrel mumbles something inaudible around another bite of cheese and deliberately shifts to the edge of the cot turning his back against Lancelot. 

Gawain does not however, even attempt to hold back the smile that blooms across his face when moments later, and after some rather aggressive chewing of his food, Squirrel takes up and holds out a generous chunk of bread over his shoulder in offer to the monk behind him. He watches as Lancelot accepts the offering with an amused smirk and a quite thank you. 

Now that Gawain really looks at him, he can see just the slightest change in the colour to the bruises marring his skin, the colour heading blessedly toward the healing stage. But Lancelot’s eyes still look heavy, as though sleep had not even touched upon him, but logically- Gawain puts that down to the severity of the past few day’s events and how they would have affected upon him, no doubt anyone would still look half done in if they had been through what Lancelot had.  
Squirrel continues with his food and starts up a new one sided conversation on how he was going to carve himself a new and deadly bow, his previous strop all but forgotten. Gawain takes his time stretching and cracking every part of his body in a bid to bring circulation back to his sleepy limbs. He knows that he is just stalling, reluctant to leave this rare moment of relative peace, but he can’t help but indulge in it just a little longer. 

He does not doubt that word has spread across the Fey camp of Lancelot’s presence, he knows that the best way to prevent too negative a reaction was to show that the monk meant them no harm. He is confident that Arthur and Kaze will be able to handle spreading the positive message, but that still might not be enough to prevent one rouge Fey looking to take revenge. 

“Squirrel, would you fetch Lancelot some fresh clothing,” he asks of the boy, finally moving into action, scooping up the monk’s discarded cloak and bundling it into the boy’s arms, “ask the mender to see to this, and tell her I’ll compensate her finely if she sees to it well,” he adds. 

Squirrel jumps heartily into action, apparently keen on helping out- as Gawain has observed- in any way when it comes to assisting Lancelot. He sees the boy take one glance back at the monk before hurrying out to complete his task.

Gawain starts the process of dressing himself, placing on his lighter armour like a second skin. As he turns to look in Lancelot’s direction, he sees him struggling with rearranging his hair, and observes that the way he has scraped it back purposely covers the religious marking on the back of his head. But the involuntary grunt of discomfort he hears as the monk strains against his injured back to reach behind his head has Gawain’s feet moving before he is even aware of what he is doing. 

“Allow me,” he motions toward the strip of material that had previously been holding Lancelot’s hair in place, taking it up and retying the mess of hair securely in its new arrangement. Lancelot remains silent and averts his gaze to an apparently very interesting patch on the ground, the look on his face is unreadable as Gawain finishes up. 

“Why do you show me kindness of which I do not deserve?” the monk says harshly as Gawain finishes up, throwing his thoughts suddenly off kilter. The self hatred was once again, very clear in his voice, and still his eyes would not meet with Gawain’s. No, this would not do. And again, his treacherous body works without the consent of his mind as he rounds the cot, kneeling down and places his hands firmly about the sides of Lancelot’s neck- forcing the other to look directly at him. 

“You have already proved to me that I have no reason to distrust your motives, we are _not_ the red Paladins, we do not condone punishment amongst our brothers,” he firmly states with a shake of his head, “Percival trusts you, it is clear to me that he has forgiven you and that alone speaks great volumes,- hatred is not within my capacity toward those who do not deserve it,” he speaks the last of it gently. 

Lancelot was frozen in place under Gawain’s hands, and although he does not move an inch throughout his speech, he can very clearly feel the increasingly rapid thrumming of his pulse beneath his fingers. His lips part again as if to speak, but no words come, as was the same with yesterday. What could _possibly_ be going through his mind right now, Gawain thought as he distantly wondered how his eyes had, once again, drifted to Lancelot's lips........

“Ummm, _good morning!!”_ comes the sudden and shrill call of Pym's voice at the entrance to the tent. Allowing his hands to swiftly fall back to his side’s, Gawain turns to see her enter, closely followed by Squirrel. She has an annoyingly undiscernible look on his face as she approaches them.

Squirrel bounds up to Lancelot, a fresh tunic in his hands along with a jumble of items Gawain assumed were for making his new bow. 

“Here you go,” Squirrel says, offering the dark tunic to Lancelot, who accepts it with a particular smile that seems reserved for Squirrel alone – and places it on over his head. It’s a simple black, neck laced shirt, and it looks miles less intimidating than what he’s used to seeing on the monk.......

“Just thought I'd check in on my patient,” Pym says very loudly, interrupting his inner thoughts and once again causing him to swiftly drag his eyes away from the monk and back on to her. That same, confusing little smirk was back on her face,- whatever _that_ was all about..... odd girl. “I trust you got some rest?” she now directs her attention back upon the monk.

“I did, thank you,” Lancelot answered immediately. 

“Goooood, right – well then, I’ll just, hop on out... leave you to it...” she drawls out, grinning from ear to ear, and _what the hell?!_ The girl was acting so strange, she had seriously lost her mind, he thought.

“Oh, yeah, I’ll come back later to check on your wounds,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “some will need re-dressing at least a couple of times,” and with that, Pym left as quickly as she came.

The rest of the day flowed in much the same fashion, they’d had a visit from Arthur who inquired after the monk’s health, and Kaze sat with Squirrel for a while, assisting him with his weapon making whilst Gawain left to freshen up down at the river. 

Upon return, Gawain walks in on Kaze and Lancelot who seem to both be deep in a conversation, judging by the serious look on Lancelot’s face. But neither of them look hostile, so he guesses that whatever it is they’re taking about is probably just a saw subject. 

As soon as Kaze sees him enter, she stands with a smile and moves towards him “I will return with some supper for you,” she says in way leaving. 

Lancelot nods in thanks and Gawain sees her out through the exit. “He heals- well on the surface that is, but I fear it will take time before the injuries of his mind and soul begin to mend,” she says worriedly, “but he trusts you, and that is a good start,” she smiles encouragingly at him, “.....keep an eye on him,” she adds before turning and leaving. 

............................

Pym greets them in much the same manner the very next morning, loudly, and at an unfairly early hour.

“Arthur has organised some hunting parties,” she announces to the three of them, “they leave within the hour, but he thought it might be good to- you know,” she inclines her head in Lancelot’s direction, “have him seen to be amongst the Fey as a friend. Arthur won’t allow him a weapon of course, but it wouldn’t hurt to have him join a hunt all the same,” she explains. 

Squirrel’s head shoots up in his direction, so fast it looks painful, a huge expectant smile forming on his face, “Aaaaaah YES! I need an excuse to test out my new bow, say we can go with- please?!” he begs, shooting hopeful glances between himself and Lancelot. 

“I’m more than happy to join a hunt, if you are up for it?” he questions the monk.

Lancelot looks for a moment to struggle with some kind of internal reasoning, but after a beat, he nods in acceptance of the invitation, “if you believe my presence will not cause harm, then of course, I will be happy to accompany a hunt,” he says stiffly.

“Niiiice,” Squirrel drawls happily, standing up to locate his weapon.

.......................

Lancelot was not all that sure about accompanying a hunt, in truth - he was craving a change of scenery, but the prospect of facing the Fey beyond the tent walls was what concerned him.

And the reality was fairly as he imagined, though a far cry from what he truly deserved. Upon leaving the tent, Percival filled the air about them with his chatter on previous hunts, his success and techniques, all the while innocently unaware of- or just decidedly ignoring- the looks of terror, and the glares of hate thrown his way. Many who saw him paled in their complexion with fear, or gripped their weapons a fraction tighter, faces hardening in disgust. He knew that Gawain had seen, that he was aware of the very tense atmosphere that seemed to stalk them like death herself. But on they went. 

“Ah, Gawain, Lancelot- I am glad you have come!” came Arthur’s voice as he clasped a hand in greeting on Gawain’s shoulder, “most have already left in their groups, and since food is scarce -we intend to spread out as far as we can to cover as much ground as possible. If you should wish- please feel free to join Kaze and the few Tusks she has managed to round up,” he says pointing in the direction of said Fey. 

Percival smiles excitedly as he marches off at speed, “Squirrel, you will keep within my sight out in the wood,” Gawain calls after the boy, words undoubtedly falling on deaf ears.

The group depart the camp clearing and head west toward the winding river. Kaze turns and often glances over at him, she offers sincere smiles as she does, but Lancelot is sure that deep down, there is still a part of her that is waiting for the moment he decides to finally turn on them. 

He thinks back to the conversation they'd had the evening before, she’d asked him how he was feeling- to which he replied that he was in no pain, and that Pym had very kindly done a good job with his injuries. But the look of confusion on her face had him suddenly re-tracing his reply in his head, had he offended her? said something wrong.........

‘No,' she had said, 'how do you feel,- inside?’ So simple a question, yet it was something he hadn’t been asked in a very, very long time. And he found that he couldn't answer it, how could he even begin to put into words how he was feeling, to voice his fears and God forgive him- his hopes?! But she had been kind, and he owed her an answer to her questions at the very least. ‘I am well, Percival and Gawain have been very good to me, I enjoy their company and am very grateful for their friendship,' he answered in truth, smiling fondly. It was not much of a reply, but it was all he could manage for now.

He is abruptly pulled out of his thoughts when he nearly collides with the back of Squirrel who stops dead in his tracks without warning. 

“Did you see that?! A boar, I am sure of it! Fat, hairy brown pig – I’ll catch you.....” he hears the boy say mostly to himself as he swiftly darts ahead around a number of trees in front of him before anyone could stop him.

“Squirrel- not too far!” Kaze calls in a hushed voice.

“Squirrel!!” Gawain attempts a little louder when it seems the young Fey would not respond to kaze's call, and they both hurry in the general direction that they boy had ran in.

Lancelot huffed in slight amusement, that boy was a real lone wolf at times......

“Hey, over there,”- he turned to see one of the Tusk clansmen point toward the river just beyond a scattering of trees, “I just saw him run toward the river,” he said as he pointed to the left.

Well, best he rescue the boy from his own bravery before it lands him in deep trouble. But as soon as Lancelot treads to the edge of the river, something odd fills his senses, a foreboding feeling sends the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Percival was not here, more to the point, Lancelot could not sense the boy’s presence either, which he knows he surely would if he was near by, given how used to the smell of the Sky folk he had become.......... 

Trusting his gut that something was not right, Lancelot made to turn and retrace his steps, only for his vision to white out as a crashing blow around his head sends him hurtling into the river behind.

........................

“Oh _damn it!”_ Gawain curses to the sky, feet coming to an abrupt halt, in his sudden quest for finding Squirrel, he had accidentally lost track of Lancelot. Great, just _great_ work Gawain- he mentally scolds himself. He was confidence that Kaze would locate the boy soon enough, so instead, he turns tail and retraces his steps. 

As he approaches where he last saw the monk, a loud splash from the river catches his attention. Well, that would probably be Squirrel then, he concludes and decides to head toward the sound. But the sight that greets him causes the very blood in his veins to freeze.

One of the Tusks from their hunting party was stood in the river, bludgeon in hand dripping with red. He stood intimidatingly above a familiar dark figure partially submerged in the water, and Gawain's fear was confirmed when the Tusk grabbed the figure by the hair, yanking a spluttering – semi conscious Lancelot into a kneeling position. The Tusk abandons his weapon to the river and unsheathes short blade placing it to the base of Lancelot’s neck. 

_No........._

By the _Gods-_ he wouldn’t make it down there in time before.........

However, just as Gawain made to dash toward the river, an arrow shot past him, embedding itself deep in the Tusk's thigh, and as a result, causing him to lose his unforgiving grip on the monk.

Gawain spares but a moment to turn and see Squirrel further up on the bank, bow in hand and a worried expression painfully gracing his face as he runs as fast as his legs can manage toward the river. He watches as the Tusk clambers over the bank, leaving a bloodied trail in his wake whilst calling in his native language to his clansmen, but as strongly as Gawain wishes to plunge his sword straight through the Tusk’s gut, his first priority was the monk- still kneeling and unmoving in the very same position.

“Lancelot,” Gawain breaths out in exertion, but the monk does not respond, he remains still in the water and watches, stares mesmerised by the dripping of blood, his _own blood-_ as it steadily washes away with the stream. 

Gawain cannot contain his relief, nor his lingering worry. He kneels down in front of Lancelot, one hand roughly encasing the uninjured side of his head, turning his face to inspect the injury, the other firmly grasping his shoulder and shaking it once for good measure-and fairly hard, 

_“Why did you not defend yourself?!”_ He bellows at the other, _“Why?!_ I’ve seen you defeat men twice his size with your bare hands, he could have killed you, he nearly.... – _why did you do nothing?!”_ Gawain shakes his shoulder once more for good measure. The wide eyed monk stayed stock still, unmoving from his kneeling position in the river, and still, no words fell from his lips.

_“Speak!!”_ Gawain shouts at the top of his lungs, frustration and anger and, God- even _fear,_ filled his voice, and that was when he realised it..... the moment striking him painfully hard in the chest at the realisation, that the thought of someone killing Lancelot _scared_ him...... because he cared, he cared deeper than he’d ever cared for another....... Oh, _damn it........._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had fun writing this one :D plans for at least another two three chapters, so hopefully will land your way soon ❤️


	6. Chapter 6

Gawain felt the slightest tremble beneath his hands as the monk before him drew in ragged breaths, Lancelot still hadn’t fully focused on him and he wasn’t sure if the trembles were due to his newly sustained injury, or down to the fact they were still knelt almost waist deep in a freezing river. 

Gawain placed his hands back around the monk’s neck and called his name again in a bid to get him to pull back from wherever his mind had taken him. But his concern only increased when Lancelot’s eyes swiftly fell shut.

“Hey, _no no no-_ keep your eyes open, Lancelot, look at me!” Gawain speaks desperately again, hoping to get a response this time around, and finally, Lancelot appears to fully focus as he turns his eyes to his.

“Death is colder than I anticipated, and I did not think to be seeing you here in hell’s embrace,” Lancelot spoke between shivers.

Gawain shakes his head, “If this is your attempt at humour, _Ashman,_ your timing is ill, and your jokes are terrible,” he huffs in amused disbelief, but feels utterly relieved that Lancelot appears to be hale enough to speak and respond to him at least. The smile that then blooms across Lancelot's face at his half hearted chide almost causes Gawain’s heart to stop, and he realises that this must be the first genuine smile he’d ever seen on the monk, and not including the little fond smiles that seem to be reserved for Squirrel alone, but a full smile that reaches his eyes without restraint, and Gods help him, but he's absolutely beautiful. 

_“Lancelot?!_ Is he ok Green Knight sir, is he alright?!” he hears Squirrel’s frantic call from just behind them. 

“He will be fine, Squirrel, thanks to your fine shot,” he calls back to the boy, voice filled with pride, “Find Kaze, tell her we need to return to camp without delay,” he instructs and watches as the boy follows his request without question. 

“Come, can you stand?” Gawain asks, “we will return to the camp immediately, and I swear by the _gods_ I'll run that Tusk down and rip his guts out-”

“I will be fine,” Lancelot cuts in before Gawain had chance to continue, “it is no worse than what we expected might happen, no less than what I deserve,” he says, voice betraying more emotion than he'd probably intended to show, and Gawain could feel a sudden surge of anger at Lancelot's words, at his continued disregard for his own well-being.

“I do not believe the words that fall from your lips, brother, and neither should you,” Gawain commands, “come, do as I say, get up- it is far too cold in these waters, Pym will skin me alive for having kept you in here for so long,” he says as he shifts to take some of the monk's weight, placing his arm around his back in support and hefts him up towards the river bank. 

By the time they make it back to the camp, they are both all but half frozen. Squirrel dashes off in search of Pym and Kaze leaves to inform Arthur of what has happened, a grim look upon her face as she departs. 

Gawain and Lancelot find their way to their shared tent and the Knight sets about finding some dry clothes for the both of them. Lancelot's controlled shivers now turn to more violent shakes, and Gawain doesn’t know whether to feel concerned that the monk had clearly been holding back the severity of his ailments in front of the other Fey in the camp, or a guilty pleasure that Lancelot now clearly trusts him enough to show his weaknesses before him. 

“Here, you’ll warm up quicker in these,” he says, passing some dry clothes to Lancelot, who nods in thanks and accepts the items. They both begin to change before Gawain’s brain catches up with his eyes, and where they were now starting at Lancelot’s bare chest. He steals his gaze away quickly and turns to give the monk some privacy as he feels the pink rise to his cheeks. 

Once dressed, Gawain turns to see Lancelot feeling at the wound on his head, and as he pulls his hand away he looks with a distinct lack of emotion at the blood coating his fingers. Gawain wonders how many injuries the guy must have take over the years, how often he must have been treated but not truly cared for and it makes his stomach twist at the thought of how truly hate filled the red Paladins are. 

“Sit,” Gawain orders, “let me take a look at that,” he motions to Lancelot’s injury as he grabs his water skin and some clean strips of cloth, and Lancelot looks almost grateful to be taking the weight off his feet as he finds himself back on the edge of the cot he’d been in not that long ago. He wets the cloth and once again finds his hands gently tilting Lancelot’s face to gain better access to the wound. The blood still looked very fresh, but at least it wasn’t bleeding too heavily now, so Gawain set about carefully cleaning the red stained area around it. 

“Sorry,” he quickly apologises having caused Lancelot to flinch ever so slightly when he cleans to close to the wound, “my hands are more adept at fighting than healing.” He adds when he sees Lancelot’s expression turn distant. 

“Why do you do this?” he hears Lancelot ask after a long beat of silence, voice so quite and pain filled it completely throws Gawain from his thoughts. “Why do you help me, why...why do you even _think_ I deserve to be helped?” He continues, voice rising greatly in volume with each word, “I see it in their eyes, I see the pain and the loss and the death reflected in their every look...... and I put that pain there, I am the reason they mourn their loved ones, I am the reason they live in fear and _still_ you stay and defend me..... _WHY?!”_ he all but screams by the end, and Gawain’s heart breaks at the desperate sight in front of him, at the break in Lancelot’s voice and the single tear tracking it’s way beyond the permeant ones. 

He removes his hands as if scolded by Lancelot’s words as he takes in this first real display of emotion he has seen from the other. The monk’s breathing comes rapidly with painfully withheld anger and obvious desperation for understanding. 

_“Hey......”_ comes Pym’s voice from just over his shoulder, her tone unusually calm and gentle, and Gawain hadn’t even noticed that she had entered the tent at all, his focus having been so tightly on Lancelot. He turns his gaze to look at the girl, but notices as Lancelot averts his gaze in the other direction, still attempting to control his breathing. 

Pym tilts her head in the direction of the tent exit, a clear indication for Gawain to leave, “go, get yourself something to eat,” she says, voice kind- but an order none the less. And when he looks back at Lancelot- it is as if the monk has completely shut off once again, and Gawain feels an unbid rise of anger at the situation, how can he prove to him that he truly believes he deserves to be helped, to be liked....to be _loved?!_ He breathes out a sigh in frustration, and swiftly takes his leave of the tent, passing Pym the blood stained cloth as he passes by, “I need to speak with Arthur, I’ll be over in the command tent if you need me,” he says without looking back and takes his leave.

........................

“Well, I feel as though that has been a while coming,” Pym says to break the stretch of silence that followed Gawain’s departure. She slowly walks deeper into the tent, conscious of further spooking the already pretty shaken monk, and though he has so clearly attempted to imitate a look of indifference, his body screams distress,- the tightness of his jaw, the tension in every muscle and his overly controlled breathing has even her own usually uncaring heart paining a little for him. 

When it seems that he will not speak, Pym grabs one of the wooden stools in the room and places it right by where he sits before searching through her healers bag for the items to deal with his injury. 

“Squirrel says you were hurt, tells me he saved you from quite a nasty end,” she says whilst dousing some cloth with a generous amount of foul smelling alcohol, “he seemed very worried- though he hides it pretty well,” she continues with still no reaction, “that will need stitching, it’s to much of a risk to leave it,” she tells him in way of seeking permission to start treatment. 

Lancelot does not look at her but responds with a small nod of the head. “Okay, this will sting to clean, but I would advise you take something a little stronger than just wine for when I stitch this up,” she warns when she actually takes a closer look at the gash on the side of his head, it was a miracle that he was still conscious by the looks of things. 

She is not surprised however, when he gently shakes his head and instead leans forward- taking the alcohol she had used on her cloth and drinks it deeply, not even flinching at the burn it must have caused to swallow. She huffs at the absurdity of it, but supposes that years and years of living in a constant war would make one feel very uncomfortable to be dosed up and not fully in control. 

As she starts cleaning the wound Pym notices how pale Lancelot’s face has become, and how much darker his eyes are, so much so that is was evident even beyond his Fey markings. He looks positively exhausted and she’s sure that he can’t have been sleeping much- if at all, by the looks of it. 

“I do not understand......” he says, voice just above a whisper, and Pym thinks back to what she had just previously walked in on, the clear tension between himself and Gawain. She swallows a deep breath and decided that she might as well hit this problem head on. 

“Are you confused about his actions.......or about your feelings toward him?” She asks, not quite daring to look him in the eye as she does.

But her words rip a reaction so unexpected from him that she is forced to remove her hands from her half done work. His eyes immediately find hers, wide with unrestrained shock and fear as his lips part for words that do not come. 

He shakes his head and frowns deeply at her, but before she can attempt to speak– Lancelot levels her with a look of pure despair, “I.....it is a weakness, a _sin-_ the devil inside of me tempts my heart and I am too _weak_ to fight it,” he spits in anger, unshed tears welling anew, “I would sooner beat this out of me than see his own people turn against him for blasphemy,” he admits in desperate resolve. 

Pym is ridiculously taken aback by the level of self loathing practically emitting from every inch of him, his reply to her question only tells her that it was going to be hard- _very_ hard, to undo the damage the Paladin’s teachings have caused.

“You do not truly believe that we would expect you to- or even _want_ you to harm yourself do you? Not for this,” she shakes her head gently, “that's not how we do things amongst our people, we are not the red Paladins, they are wrong, so very wrong and you _must_ see that. There is no kindness or acceptance in their hearts, they isolated you and used you for their purpose, that is not what family does. How you feel is not a sin, and it is not a weakness,- you should not fear family, you should not be punished for love,” she says, desperately hoping that some small part of what she was saying was getting through. 

Lancelot seems to freeze in place, eyes wide and unblinking, and seeing as he didn't appear to react too negativity to what she had said, Pym decided to push a little further.

“So, you like Gawain then......?” she half asks, half states in a slightly unsure tone, and by the way Lancelot immediately withdraws his eye contact and tilts his head down is really answer enough. It's painfully obvious that this kind of situation would not be condoned by the red Paladins, and would no doubt end messily for anyone that found themselves within it. 

“He accepted me, in a way I have never known, not at least in as long as I can remember. I will not repay his kindness with the burden of this knowledge,” Lancelot says in grim determination. 

Pym thinks to the way that she has seen Gawain behave around the monk, and it’s screamingly clear to her that he has caught feelings for Lancelot, and that even he was finding it difficult to hide the fact. But she wondered if it would do more harm than good to inform Lancelot of this at this very moment, and even if it was her place to do so in the first place. 

Intent on continuing with her work, she slowly moves her hands back towards his injury, careful to give him time enough to withdraw from her touch if he so decides, but when he makes no move to prevent her from proceeding- she picks up from where she had left off.

“I know Gawain,” she starts softly, “I know that he has an undeniably good heart, he would never reject someone for having feelings beyond their control, it is not a sin and he would never see it as so,” she tells him with absolute confidence. 

His reaction to what she says is very minimal, but she notices how Lancelot’s breathing comes a little easier, and how his focus turns inward once again- as though attempting to digest what she has told him. Pym continues with her work in silence and ensures that she actually does a half decent job. 

“Right, you need rest- and that is non negotiable,” Pym orders as she finishes up, “I'll let Arthur and Kaze know that you are alright, I'm sure that they will be very pleased to know. One of them will be along to keep guard whilst you rest,” she says, to which Lancelot only adverts his gaze further, clearly unused to having anyone willing to defend him out of loyalty of friendship alone.

Pym sighs once again as she makes to stand and leave, it really is going to be a difficult road to recovery for him. 

“Thank you, Pym,” he says to her, lifting his gaze to meet hers, his look betraying that he his thanking her for more than just healing his injuries once again. 

She smiles softly back at him, “Any time,” she promises, and whole heartedly means it. 

..................................

Lancelot places his hand carefully to the now stitched wound on his head, Pym had done not too bad a job by the feel of it. The pain of it was now becoming a constant throbbing dull ache and he closed his eyes against the pressure it caused, tiredness washing over him all of a sudden. He thought over what Pym had said to him and wondered at how on earth he had been so obvious with the secrets of his heart that even the girl could see them before her. In the eyes of God, and by the word of the Paladin, to seek relation with another of the same sex is unholy and sinful, punishable by death, and given that his holy mission with the Paladins spared no time matters of the heart, Lancelot had long buried how the direction of his attraction trends toward men. 

But then Gawain chose to unearth his heart from where it lay untouched, his sorrowful compassion from way back in brother Salt's kitchen had been the moment to turn the tide. Every touch the Knight bestows on him painfully twists his heart in a direction that both scares and revives him. 

He would have been ready to punish his body in a hope of cleansing his soul, he wouldn’t care if he would have to rip the skin from his flesh if it meant that Gawain would not also be implicated in his disgrace, but Pym had said that it was not a sin, that the Fey would not look to punish one of their own for feeling such a way. He was grateful enough for the kindness Gawain had shown him, but he wouldn’t dare to hope of his feelings being reciprocated. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the slight movement of the tent entrance, a small pair of eyes peering through moments before their owner sprints through toward him at an unnatural speed for one so young.

“You’re alright! I mean, I knew you would be, nothing can take you down,” Percival praises him unfairly well. He runs over to where Lancelot sits and places himself down right next to him, and Lancelot still can't help the way his heart wells at the trust the boy shows him. “They haven't found that bloody Tusk yet, idiots, how can they be so stupid to lose him?! I should have aimed for his fat head instead and done the job myself.......” he says in anger mostly to himself.

“Do not worry yourself, your shot was impeccable and it undoubtedly saved my life,” he tells the boy, placing his hand on his shoulder and drawing his attention right back on him, “thank you,” he says with a gentle smile, to which the boy returns tenfold. Lancelot feels a surge of pride for the young Fey orphan, a genuine whole hearted regard for the boy. 

Their moment is swiftly broken however – as an arrow shoots and embeds itself only a few feet from where they sit into a wooden chest, and the cry of an approaching army fills the distant air. 

Lancelot grabs for Percival, protectively pushing him behind his body in the hopes of shielding him. _“Stay!”_ Lancelot begs of Percival as he hurriedly dashes for the tent entrance, heart racing in his chest, for he knew what he would see outside, knew what was coming their way........ and his fear was proven true when in the distance beyond the forest trees, he could see the unmistakable red of the approaching Paladin army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah I am so sorry for such a late update!!! I went away on a holiday and like an idiot- completely forgot to take my tablet :'( am pleased to have it back now and am already typing away on the next chapter :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of blood and mild violence

Utter panic spread like fire amongst the Fey, the Paladins seemingly advancing out of no where catches them unprepared and has them fleeing in blind terror. Lancelot was disturbed by the fact he hadn’t sensed them coming, he damns his weakened state – he should have known they were there, he could have warned the Fey and truly have been of help to them. But now he was unarmed and watching his former brothers attack those they wrongly accuse of devilry. 

Percival shifts from behind his view and gifts Lancelot but the fraction of a second to grasp him by the scruff of the neck and pull him back into the tent before he can charge head first into the fray. 

_“No,_ let me at them, I can help!” he shouts as Lancelot brings him back to the concealment of the tent, “We need to help the Green Knight, I can protect us once I have my bow- but I've left it in the command tent,” he says swiftly as he once again tries to wiggle out of Lancelot's hold. 

“Percival, listen to me,” Lancelot implores as he kneels down to eye level with the boy, “I will fight till my last breath to protect your people out there, I owe them that much at least, but I can't risk your life to make that possible, I could not bear the thought of you getting hurt fighting against the Paladins, _please-_ stay here and I promise that I'll run to the aid of your Green Knight,” he begs the boy in a tone he prays will have him actually do as he asks. 

“Our people,” Percival whispers, and Lancelot’s brows knit in confusion at the statement.

“You said, _your_ people, but you are one of us- they are your people now too,” Percival speaks with gentle conviction. 

Lancelot stares in open wonder at the boy, how he is so perceptive and seemingly wise for one so young outstands him. He doesn’t think twice before drawing the young Fey into a tight embrace, “our people,” he echoes the words of boy, and feels the responding hold tighten at his words.

“Stay here,” he repeats to Percival, “if they come this way- run West through the wood, and don't look back,” he commands as he makes to stand. Percival looks as though he was about to speak, but claps his mouth shut and instead, nods once in answer. Lancelot doubts that the boy will stay true to his word, but he can only hope that he will at least use his smarts to keep himself safe. He gives Percival one swift reassuring nod before turning to leave the tent. 

He sprints out from between the trees and toward the direction that most of the fighting seemed to be centred. He heard cries of Fey and Paladins alike as both fell to the sword of the other. As he drew closer, he could see that it didn't appear to be the full force of the main Paladin army that they were under attack from, but there were most definitely enough red soldiers to make defeating them more of a task than just a simple quick fight. 

Lancelot's swift reactions save him from a bludgeon to the head as he skilfully side steps an attack from behind, using the motion of his move to knock the offending Paladin off balance before grabbing his head and making quick work of snapping his neck. He watches with detached emotion as the body of his former brother sinks to the ground, eyes still staring- though devoid of life, but a familiar voice breaks through his lapse in concentration and he turns to see Gawain amongst the tents slashing and taking down the Paladins around him and calling out orders to the Fey by his side. 

He watches as Gawain fights with skill, almost like a dance as he twists and turns taking down his enemy, not many can keep up with himself in a fight but Gawain was truly an exception. But all the skill in the world would not prevent the deadly blow of the arrow now aiming directly at his chest, a red Paladin concealed from Gawain’s sight looking to take his shot at the Fey Knight. 

Lancelot's feet are moving before his brain can even catch up, _“Gawain!!”_ he shouts loud and desperately as he crashes toward the Paladin, praying his voice carries far enough for the Knight to heed his warning. Just as the arrow leaves the bow, Lancelot tackles the red Paladin to the ground, and two things happen at once, he feels the satisfying crack from breaking yet another neck at the very same time as feeling a short blade slide deeply into his side. 

He cries out in shock as he turns to face the new attacker from behind just as the blade is removed and re-plunged deep into his stomach. A horrid warmth seeps through his clothing as a dull ache consumes his side. He stares in horror at the Paladin wielding the weapon against him, _“Traitor,”_ the red Paladin spits in this face, “God will smile as I send you to hell,” he declares with a righteous smile as he draws back for a third blow, but just as the dagger is aimed at his heart, he grabs the Paladin’s arm- pulls with all the strength he can muster and removes the blade from his grip. He doesn’t think twice before plunging the dagger hilt deep into the Paladin’s neck, and watches as the red of his blood bleeds beneath his robes. The Paladin chokes and succumbs to the blow, falling lifeless to ground beside his dead brother. 

Dropping the dagger, Lancelot places his hands to the stab wounds on his side and stomach and looks morbidly at his fingers as they come away coated in deep red blood. His knees sink to the ground as his strength fails him, he once again presses his palms against the bleeding wounds in an ill-fated attempt at preventing the inevitable. 

His breathing labours as the adrenalin wears off, and he notes that his hold against his wounds loosens, unable to maintain the pressure need to prevent the blood loss. He thinks that he distantly hears his name being called, but against the rushing inside his head- he couldn't be too sure. His tentative balance all together fails him as he slides from his knees and collides with the ground beneath. 

...............................

There was no warning before the cries of battle flooded the command tent he was currently standing in. One minute Gawain and Arthur were looking over plans for moving the Fey to new and potentially safer grounds, the next- he heard the devastating sound of attack beyond the tent walls.

The Knight spared one moment to look at the man beside him before both reached for their swords and made towards the exit. 

“Arthur, make for the healer’s tent, we can't allow for them to over run it,” he says in full command as he surveys the advancing Paladins before him. Thankfully, Arthur has good sense to follow the order without delay, “don’t die,” he says in way of parting as he makes in the direction of healers tent, already sliding his blade into the gut of an attacking Paladin. 

Gawain lifts his sword and blocks the swing of a sword that comes from his left, he makes quick work of cutting down the Paladins that try their luck against him, he confidently spins and strikes at their unarmoured forms – sending them to meet their maker. 

Whilst withdrawing his bloodied sword from the back of a felled Paladin, Gawain suddenly hears his name being called, the voice piercing through the sounds of battle. He turns in the direction of the call to suddenly see a Paladin aiming an arrow directly at him, but upon release of the weapon- he pivots just out of the line of fire, and watches with shock as the arrow embeds itself deep within the tree behind him. 

_“Fuck,”_ he breathes out as he turns with the expectation of a second arrow coming his way, but what he hadn’t expected to see was Lancelot charging at his attacker and sending him to the ground. Though his moment of relief was shattered the second the monk overpowered the archer, as a second Paladin charges from the side- dagger in hand and aimed right a Lancelot. 

_“No....!”_ Gawain cries desperately, but his attempt at reaching Lancelot is blocked by another wave of Paladins advancing his way. He cuts through them with renewed vigour, mercilessly slicing his way through each one. 

Once they lay dead at his feet, Gawain swiftly takes stock of the area of the camp he was in, the fighting continued around him but it was clear that the Fey had the upper hand, and that they would have little trouble seeing off the rest of the attackers in no time. He desperately turns to where he last Lancelot, and the scene in front of him stops his heart. 

The monk was down, slumped ungracefully on his side in the dirt, a worryingly large patch of blood seeping through his clothes. 

“Lancelot,” he breathes out as he bids his legs to move. His knees hit the ground with a thud as he reached the monk’s side, _“Lancelot,”_ he tried again to gain the monk’s attention, and when he looks he sees that his eyes are glazed over and unfocused, his breathing coming rapid but shallow. 

“Hey,” he says quietly as he gently places his hand on the others cheek, softly turning his head to bring his eyes in contact with his own, and Lancelot finally focuses as if only just becoming aware of Gawain’s presence. 

The smile that spreads across Lancelot’s face as he looks up at him is painfully beautiful. 

“I wasn’t sure if that arrow had found it’s intended target or not,” Lancelot whispers, his voice shaking as he speaks, “I'm glad to see that it didn't,” he says before weakly coughing, the sound coming out too wet and rattled for Gawain’s liking. 

“Yes, and it seems as though I have you to thank for that,” Gawain respond gratefully, returning the genuine smile he received from the monk. But Lancelot's features suddenly contort in suffering as he squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a quiet moan of pain as his hands shakily slide away from their hold on his wounds. 

Gawain’s brain suddenly kicks into gear, and with fumbling hands he desperately places pressure over where the monk's had slipped away. 

He only realises that he is frantically rambling out loud when Lancelot gently lays a hand on his arm, silencing his words and stilling his efforts at stopping the bleeding. 

Gawain turns his gaze from the terrifying amount of blood beneath his hands, and looks at Lancelot’s eyes, the look he sees reflected in them finally has the steadily building tears fall from his own. 

“No, _no no no no,_ don’t you dare,” he begs- shaking his head in disbelief and outright denial.

“Do not fool yourself,” Lancelot says softly before coughing back a groan of pain, his body shaking gently beneath Gawain’s touch.

“You _can’t,”_ Gawain begs once again, tears tracking their way freely down his cheeks. 

The soft smile returns to Lancelot’s face and it looks almost fond to his eyes. “Look after Percival, tell him that he has been a good and honourable Knight, that he has been a true friend,- one I did not deserve....” he says before a painful sounding cough racks through his lungs. 

Gawain’s composure all but snaps at the enormity of the emotion that floods his chest. He leans forward and places their foreheads together in a gentle embrace, breathing through the wave of grief seeping through to his heart, tears falling from behind closed eyes. 

“No, no you do as I say, you will live- or you will regret it, I will make _sure_ of that..” he demands weakly of the monk. 

“Oh I regret many things Green Knight, but I do not regret saving you, ..... I could not regret dying for the one that holds my heart......”

And Gawain’s breath catches as his thoughts are silenced, Lancelot had said....... _Gods,_ had he just said........?!

His eyes fly open as he draws back from his embrace to look down at Lancelot, but the monk's eyes had already fallen shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter but it broke up best here :') next chapter should be up tomorrow or Monday at the latest! 
> 
> Thank you again so so much for all the lovely comments and Kudos, I genuinely appreciate the kindness so much :D


	8. Chapter 8

“No, _no,_ Lancelot- open you eyes, _wake up!”_ he panics and applies pressure to the wounds with renewed vigour, “You damn stubborn git- _wake up!”_ Gawain begs but to no avail, the monk’s eyes remain closed and unresponsive.

This could not be happening, no, this could absolutely _not_ be happening- he thinks in complete denial, he had just said, gods- Lancelot had just said that _he held his heart!_ There was little room for doubting his meaning and Gawain’s own breaking heart can not take this hit, it would not survive the blow. He had not for one moment ever entertained the notion that his feelings for the monk would be reciprocated, and had started to make peace with knowing that a friendship with Lancelot was more than he should hope for, but it seems that he had been wrong on that account, and it pains him more than he can imagine.

He pulls his eyes away from the blood coating his hands and looks again at Lancelot’s face. He looks pale, the dark of his markings contrasting garishly against his now pallid complexion, and still his eyes do not open. 

Gawain looks around in desperation and shouts at the top of his lungs for anyone to come to his aid but knowing full well that it was unlikely any hands could be spared in this precise moment when he so desperately needed them. 

Though just moments later, he sees squirrel appear in his peripheral and turning his gaze to him- he chokes on the very real pain he sees radiating off the young Fey. Squirrel stands unmoving but a few feet away, his eyes shine with tears begging to fall as he struggles to control his breathing. Gawain can not find the words to console the boy, he doubts that anything he could say right now would comfort him. 

He looks again at the still sluggishly bleeding wounds beneath his hold, a desperate situation to which he has no answer, how could he fix this, _damn it_ how could he even _heal..._ wait, gods the _green...._ he suddenly remembers back to their fight before the monk had taken him to brother Salt- he had hurt the Lancelot, landed a hit and slashed his arm and he had fallen- his hand hitting the green vines that lay beneath him, and the hidden had reached out to him- healed him through it. There was no telling if they would answer his touch again, but it was the only thing Gawain could come up with, the only chance that Lancelot may have. 

By all the gods and the hidden, _please_ let this work.....

He turns with desperate eyes toward Squirrel, “Help me move him,” he asks of the boy, “the hidden may heal him, he may have a chance if we can move him to within their reach,” he explains with haste as his eyes wildly scan the area for some blessed greenery amongst the dead, his sight finally falling upon the leaves of an ivy plant not too far behind them.

Squirrel swipes angrily at the tears blurring his vision and with a renewed look of determination, he closes the gap between himself and the fallen monk. Gawain grasps Lancelot tightly around his chest as Squirrel helps to take his weight in hand, his _dead weight-_ his mind painfully supplies, but between them, they manage to move Lancelot back towards the ivy. 

Without a seconds thought, Gawain places Lancelot's hand amongst the plant, and he waits......

Nothing..............

“No,” he breath out, eyes wide and head shaking, _“come on!”_ he cries out, yet the hidden do not answer.

Gawain hears Squirrel’s breathing suddenly come uneven as he fights against his rolling emotions, and without taking his eyes off Lancelot, he reaches for the boy- pulls him close and holds him tight as the sobs rack his tiny form.

“Wait........” he breathes out in shock as right before his eyes- the colours of the ivy mimic and rush up Lancelot’s arm, bleeding up his skin and beneath his clothing towards his wounds, and Gawain dares to hope that the power of the hidden will be enough, that it will reach him in time to have effect.

“Squirrel, look.....” he calls the boy from his cries, and red rimmed eyes look up at his before turning towards Lancelot. Squirrel inhales one breath of shock before pulling away from Gawain and landing in an ungraceful heap beside the monk. His eyes track the colour of the ivy up the monk's arm as he moves his hands towards Lancelot's wounds. But before Gawain can even move to stop Squirrel from touching them- he is already lifting the monk's shirts in one swift motion. 

“Oh my God,” he breaths out in shock. Where he would have still expected to see broken and bleeding skin he could now see pink tissue- closed wounds looking to be already weeks healed. Squirrel suddenly turned desperate and hopeful eyes toward him, his mouth hanging open in debrief. 

Gawain pitches forward and swiftly places his hand to Lancelot's chest, his heart in his throat as he prays that he will feel life beneath his touch, and the gods answer his prayers as he feels the steady rise and fall of Lancelot's chest and the beautifully strong thrumming of his heart through his finger tips.

He lists to one side in sudden relief allowing the ground to finally take more of his weight as he thanks the hidden with all his heart.

“He lives,” he whispers both for the benefit of the boy and for himself also, and although Lancelot still looked like death lightly warmed over, each breath he drew into his lungs gave him more reason to hope. 

“Lancelot.....?” Squirrel tries to rouse him, gently placing a hand against the side of his face, but to no avail, “he’s cold,” he says turning worried eyes to his. Gawain snaps into motion, Lancelot may no longer be bleeding to death, but his condition still looked precarious at best. Thankfully, Pym chose that precise moment to appear by their sides.

“We’re safe, the last of them are being hunted down as we speak,” she calls to them as she runs from between the trees, “Kaze will leave none alive that’s for sure, are you guys okay....” her question trails off as she gains ground on them and comes close enough the damage. 

“Shit,” she curses in genuine concern, “what the hell happened?! Is he okay?!” she queries whilst kneeling down next to Lancelot’s side, her face scrunching in concern at the amount of blood covering his torso. 

“The blood is his own, but the hidden have healed him, though he’s deathly cold,” he explains to her.

Pym takes a moment to check Lancelot over, placing a delicate hand over his brow and scrunching her face in concentration, “I think it best we move him as soon as possible then,” she replies after thought, receiving a nod in agreement from himself. 

Without word, the three Fey lift Lancelot with relative ease as they head toward the tent he and the monk had been sharing these past days. Lancelot does not stir throughout the ordeal, not even as they gently lay him on the cot or when Pym begins to slice away his shirts in order to clean the now quickly drying blood. 

Squirrel sits unusually quiet in the corner of the tent, his eyes follow every movement of Pym’s as she re-soaks a cloth and wipes away another depressingly large swipe of blood from Lancelot's chest. 

“Squirrel,” Gawain calls quietly, catching the boy's attention, “why don't you go clean up, get yourself some food,” he suggests to the young Fey, and is relieved when the boy follows the suggestion without complaint, declaring that he would return soon with some food for them too. 

Gawain moves closer to Pym and watches as she cleans the last of the blood from Lancelot’s sides, “He will need a few blankets,” she says as she finishes up, “He's colder than I would like him to be but he should warm up quickly if we cover him well,” she explains. 

Gawain’s mind begins to wonder as he lays the blankets down to cover Lancelot, thinking of how terribly close he had come to meeting his end...... “He said that I hold his heart,” Gawain suddenly blurts out as he finds his thoughts leaving his mouth without permission, “He said...... _gods_ he said that with what he thought was his last breath, I nearly lost him- he nearly......” Gawain trails off as the severity of the situation and how bad it could have turned finally sinks in and weighs down on his heart. He doesn’t even realise his hands are shaking anew until Pym suddenly appears by his side and grasps them in her own, stilling his anxious shakes. 

“Of course he holds a place for you in his heart, it’s glaringly obvious,” she says softly with a smile pulling gently at her lips, “You both more than deserve the affection the other can give, but there is a lot of damage on his side, I do not think he has ever known true love, or even real affection,” she says with a sad tone, “though I think that you are most definitely more than qualified to show him what he has been missing,” she encourages him in a way that has him smiling at her ever truthful words. 

“He seems to be out of danger, as far as I can see- the hidden have fully healed him, he should wake once rested. Stay with him, but make sure you get some rest as well,” Pym demands in a no nonsense tone, “I can't have both of you keeling over on me at once.” 

Gawain thinks twice before saying to Pym that he doesn’t need any rest, when in fact he did feel utterly exhausted. He nods in agreement and receives a responding smile of triumph from Pym as he settles down in one of the only comfortable looking chairs in the room having placed it by Lancelot’s side. 

The exhaustion sets in fast and the moment he takes the weight off his feet he can feel his eyes growing heavy. 

“I'll return to check on you both in a few hours,” he hears Pym say as she exits the tent, he takes one more look at the perfectly sleeping monk before slipping into the darkness to the sound of his gentle breathing. 

...............................

Lancelot wakes with a sudden start, drawing in a dizzying breath he pushes himself into an sitting position so fast he almost topples over. He squints against the mild pain within his head and bids his mind to supply him with any information as to how he was seemingly alive and apparently back in his and Gawain’s tent. 

A muffled groan to his side suddenly pulls his attention to his right, only to be greeted by the now awakening Green Knight. Gawain’s eyes open slowly and his sight eventually falls upon his own. 

They hold the gaze for one stretched moment before Gawain practically lunges at him from where he sat by his side, his hands encircling his face in that way he had touched him many times, eyes brimming with tears as he dives suddenly forward causing their lips collide in a kiss so desperate, it completely takes his breath away. 

Lancelot's heart catches in his throat, his mind not fully accepting that this was actually happening. He draws back however when he feels the unmistakable tracking of tears falling down Gawain’s face. 

“Don’t you _ever_ do a thing like that again, you hear me, you mean _too_ much.......” Gawain demands before choking on a sob, unable to finish his sentence, and Lancelot just looks at him, stunned and in disbelief.

“You hold my heart too,” Gawain declares, “and I will not permit you to take it to the next life without me,” he explains as he gently places his fingers to caress along Lancelot’s neck and down to his chest, palm laying protectively over where his heart beats.

Lancelot lets the shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding, he could barely believe what he was hearing, Gawain was declaring his affection for him and his mind just couldn’t comprehend that fact.

“I do not deserve such love,” he whispers as tears now fall along his own cheeks, “I will never deserve this......” he says, and truly believes.

Gawain looks directly into his eyes and smiles sadly at him, “Yes, you do,” he answers simply. He feels his eyes fall to Gawain’s lips once again, and it seems as if that's all it takes for the Knight to close the gap once more, pulling them into a tender kiss- broken only when their lungs beg for breath. 

Gawain holds them close, gripping to him like his life depended on it, “How am I here?” Lancelot asks when his mind finally decides to start working. 

“The hidden, they answered your touch, you are Fey and they deemed you worthy of life,” Gawain says with a smile as he draws back enough to look him straight in the eyes, and Lancelot sees nothing but true joy and relief in his gaze.

In as long as he could recall, Lancelot had never known touch without pain, had never had belief without fear, or family without hate, but as he looked into the completely open and honest eyes of the Fey in front of him, there was one feeling he allowed to emerge untainted, a feeling he now clung to with all his heart......

Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah!!!! Just one more chapter to go :o
> 
> Some shameful smut to come because I think the guys deserve a break, think I've tortured them enough :')
> 
> So much love for all the comments of support and kudos- thank yooou!!! ❤️❤️❤️


	9. Chapter 9

The biting chill of the evening air caused a slight shiver to course along Gawain’s spine, he edged ever so slightly closer to the fire and readily gulped at his drink in the hopes of it warming him up, even if only temporarily. He distantly wondered if the alcohol was a helpful distraction from, or a terrible hindrance to his aim of keeping his eyes from blatantly devouring the monk sitting by his side.

It had been nearly four days past since the Paladin attack on the Fey camp, and over those few days there had been a blessed spell of peace for the remaining Fey. Plans had been drawn up and the decision made to relocate the current camp to a new and hopefully safer site, the move which was now planned to take place the following morning. 

Pym however, had executively decided that drinks were in dire need before the long day ahead of them, as according to her, they well deserved some down time. In her usual blunt but persuasive manor- she had all but demanded the company of the Fey now currently sitting in her presence. Gawain smirked as he watched her talking _at,_ rather than _with_ Kaze, her expressions as fiery as her hair as she re-enacts some story or other from her time with the raiders, but once again, Gawain’s treacherous mind- unhelpfully fueled by the alcohol, finds itself unable to keep up with her words as it dangerously drifts to thoughts he should be keeping at bay.

Gawain’s eyes are once again drawn back to Lancelot, he watches as the younger Fey takes a tentative sip of his drink which had just moments ago been generously refilled back to the brim by the girl now chatting away the night. His eyes are drawn to those full, perfect lips which only days ago he had tasted against his own for the first time. Even though the hidden had healed his wounds, Lancelot had still been very weak following his come back from the brink of death, he had spent the best part of the previous few days following Pym’s direct order to rest.

Gawain had kept a close eye on his progress, and could happily see that Lancelot was healing up nicely, his strength returning day by day. In the few moments of peace where they hadn't had Squirrel filling their tent with chatter, or any of the others checking up on Lancelot, Gawain had found his lips locked with the monk's, and each time Gawain could feel Lancelot's growing need for more, not that he was finding it easy to hold back himself, but he knew that they’d have to take it slow, that Lancelot needed to recover his strength before they really started exploring this uncharted territory further.

Lancelot suddenly turns his head to look right at him, and as if he could literally read his thoughts- the monk's eyes flicker from Gawain’s eyes to his lips, then back again. The mere sight of it is enough to raised the Knight’s heart rate, he purposely licks his lips and is sinfully satisfied to see the other's eyes tracking the movement, and by the _gods_ he needs to somehow get himself and Lancelot back to their tent before his growing arousal becomes glaringly obvious to all.

Before his brain could catch up with his body- Gawain suddenly finds himself standing up, the quick movement causing the current conversation to rapidly stop as all eyes turned to him. 

“Umm.......” he elegantly starts, “long day ahead of us, tomorrow will be a tiring day for sure, best we all get some rest while we can,” he says, hoping that he had kept his composure. He watches as Lancelot stands and nods in agreement, turning to Pym and Kaze.

“Your company has been much appreciated, but I believe that Gawain is right, I will bid you both a good night,” Lancelot says with his usual elegance, and Gawain cannot help but feel a warmth within him at the sight of his closest friends accepting Lancelot so whole heartedly. 

Pym’s gaze darts between the both of them, eyes wide and her mouth hanging open just slightly as a grin grows on her face, “okaaaaaaay....... have a good sleep boys, we’ll see you in the morning,” she drawls out, now with a full unrestrained smile on her lips. 

With the very real threat of an impending blush creeping up his cheeks, Gawain nods his thanks and swiftly turns to head in the direction of his tent with Lancelot following just behind his side. The moment they enter the privacy of their tent, Gawain cannot hold back his desire, and finds his lips seeking out and attaching onto Lancelot's within seconds. He doesn't even attempt to hold back the low groan of pleasure that he releases as Lancelot deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue along Gawain’s lips demanding of more. 

The kiss grows more desperate as Gawain firmly runs the palms of his hands along the curve of the other’s back, his small shiver in response causing a desperate heat to flair in the bottom of his stomach. He knows he should hold back, knows that considering Lancelot's past- this road they were heading down may be a mine field of potential issues, but when he presses closer against the other, he feels Lancelot's unmistakable responding arousal. 

Gawain suddenly breaks away from the kiss, his eyes shoot to meet Lancelot's to attempt to gage his emotions, which wasn’t always an easy feat in normal circumstances. But the sight before him was as encouraging as it was deadly beautiful. Lancelot’s pupils were blown wide, the sight was sinfully delicious; his lips red and parted, panting breaths falling between them as his eyes consumed everything before him.

_“Fuck....._ you’re just,” he stumbles on his words as he tries to order his thoughts, “Are you sure this is okay?” he tentatively asks, hoping not to kill the mood, but still wanting to do this thing right.

Lancelot answers his question with one of those rare and genuine smile, caressing Gawain’s face with his hands he draws him back into another kiss, though a more gentle and grounding one this time.

“I want this,” Lancelot whispers as he draws back, “I want you, more than have wanted anything in this world,” he says as he lazily plants chased kisses along Gawain’s neck. 

Gawain feels his heart pang at the other’s words, his affection for Lancelot becoming all consuming. It makes him more determined than ever to treat the Fey right, to give him new and positive memories that he prays may one day over shadow the horrors of his past. 

Gawain gently pulls Lancelot backwards toward his cot and allows himself to fall onto it as his legs meet the edge, pulling Lancelot along with him. He swiftly shifts on top of the other, and with his legs now straddling either side of Lancelot's, he grinds down his hips, and none too gently. The sound he is rewarded with goes straight to his rapidly hardening cock; Lancelot's hips buck readily in search of the touch, and Gawain finds he is more than keen to press for more.

He rolls his hips again and drowns in the look of pleasure that passes over Lancelot's face, he wants to memorize every feature of his, to learn his sweet spots, to learn what makes his breath hitch and what will cause him to come fully undone. 

Gawain reaches for the hem of his own shirt, removing and discarding of it in one fluid motion, but as his hands grip the edges of Lancelot's, the monk suddenly becomes completely ridged, his hands quickly encircling Gawain’s – preventing him from continuing. 

Gawain lifts his gaze to see Lancelot's eyes filled with so many emotions at once that it physically hurts his heart to see, but the almost too well hidden look of fear is what he is determined to address first. He allows Lancelot’s restraining grip to remain in place, hoping that it provides him with at least a small sense of control in this minor setback. 

“We do nothing that you are not comfortable with,” he says in a calm tone, keeping his body language as open and honest as possible, “just know there is no part of you that I do not look upon without love in my heart.” 

Gawain’s words seem to sink in as Lancelot eases his grip and eventually letting go all together. His eyes flash with a familiar look of disbelief, as though he has never heard words of such a kind nature, to which Gawain supposes that he in truth, he probably never has. 

Lancelot slowly leans up on one elbow and uses his other hand to draw Gawain into a deep and heavy kiss relaxing the tension in both their bodies, “I trust you,” he declares breathlessly into Gawain's ear, “I’m sorry, I just.....”

“No, do not apologises,” Gawain interrupts before Lancelot could continue, “never be sorry for how you are feeling, just...... always be honest with me, I want you to enjoy this, I trust you to tell me if there is anything you do not like,” he says with absolute determination. 

Lancelot nods and further relaxes his self back into the cot, he pulls Gawain along with him causing his weight to once again press fully against the Fey below him. He finds their lips attached once again in a sweet kiss, and relishes in the raspy groan he draws from the Fey beneath him as he presses their hardening cocks together.

Lancelot pushes himself slightly backwards on the cot to lean his back up against the backrest as he slowly removes his shirt. Gawain smiles lovingly at the Fey in front of him as he softly glides his hands down Lancelot’s chiseled stomach, and retraces his hands up to his chest, his fingers bruising against his hardening nipples causing the other's breath to increase in speed.

The fact that Lancelot appeared to be so sensitive to the smallest of stimulation turned Gawain on more than he could have imagined, and he starts to wonder if either of them would last much longer at all. With that thought in mind, he ever so slightly leans back and slowly releases himself from the confines of his remaining clothes. Lancelot watches with adorably wide eyes as Gawain finally frees himself, the look on his face making him seem so uncharacteristically young. 

He slowly moves his hands to the band of Lancelot’s trousers, pausing for a moment to give the other a chance to change his mind. But Lancelot only nods and moves his own hands to help with removing the now final barrier between them, and _damn......_ if Gawain thought he couldn't _possibly_ get any harder, he was sorely mistaken.

“Fuck, you really are gorgeous,” he can't help but say as he fully eyes up the Fey beneath him, he can't stop himself from latching his lips onto Lancelot's hips, kissing and biting a trail along down toward his legs; and when he sucks particularly hard on the inside of his thigh he is satisfyingly gifted with a gasp of shock from Lancelot, his hips bucking up in search of more. 

_“Gawain....”_ he breathlessly moans, the sound coming like music to his ears; he once again shifts forwards and straddles his legs on either side of Lancelot’s- effectivity sitting in his lap, and with hands shaking with anticipation- he lines up both their cocks, pressing them together taking them both in hand.

Lancelot’s hands fly up from where they had been gripping the bed sheets to establish a firm hold on Gawain’s hips causing him to shift and fall deeper in his seat, and Gawain begins to slide his hand up and down their cocks, the motion made easier from the slickness caused by their combined pre-come. 

Their breathing increases in unison as Gawain massages them both closer to oblivion, Lancelot's hold on his hips becoming almost bruising as Gawain draws out of him a loud moan of pleasure as he twists his wrist and swipes his thumb deliberately over their weeping slits. 

Lancelot proves to speak as little during sex as he does in general, but the sounds of pleasure he makes only serves to make Gawain painfully harder as he hurtles toward his orgasm, he is determined to see the Fey come undone before him, is desperate to see the look of bliss that will surely grace his face as he comes, so he doubles his movements and does all he can to hold back his own orgasm for as long as necessary.

_“God,_ uh.... I, I'm gonna.....” Lancelot suddenly states, and Gawain delights in the way Lancelot's body suddenly turns ridged, the way he squeezes his eyes shut as his lips part in a silent scream, his orgasm ripping through him and coating Gawain’s hands. And the last of his own restraint finally snaps at the beautiful sight before him, and the Knight finally allows himself his own release, the power of it being so strong he has to lean his head against Lancelot's shoulders, biting down on the soft spot beside his neck- a deep and blissful moan falling behind his teeth as he comes. 

And they both just remain where they're sat, content to revel in the glow of pleasure as their breathing comes down to a more normal rate. But as Gawain’s legs begin to protest against the prolonged unnatural angle, he softly pulls away from the Fey beneath him and slides over to sit by his side, drawing Lancelot in for a soft embrace.

“That was...... that was something I would most _definitely_ like to do again,” Gawain huffs breathlessly with a huge smile plastered on his face, and is pleased to see from the look on Lancelot's face- that he definitely agrees with the statement, if the small laugh and smile in response is anything to go by.

Lancelot leans over and draws Gawain into a slow but passionate kiss, “I would be delighted to,” he responds around a smile as he draws back just slightly, and Gawain feels his heart beat with a strength he has never felt before. He knows he is falling hard for the Fey at his side, but he also knows that he would happily fall forever for that smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thank you so so much to all who have stuck with this, I really hope it's been enjoyed!! I've loved all the comments and Kudos so much- they've really made me smile, so thank you!!!! 
> 
> :) ❤️❤️❤️


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